The Curious Case Of John Watson
by Hughesish
Summary: John is in a coma after an explosion, and Sherlock finds himself chasing after a disappearing child who seems far too familure.Rating may change in the future! NOT MY CHARACTERS, obviously
1. Chapter 1

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 1**

**Second fanfic, hope you like it! **

"Where is he? What have you done with him?"

If Lestrade hadn't known better he would have said Sherlock Holmes sounded panicked, worried even. He had known the man for over 6 years however and had seen him smile at some of the most gruesome corpses. It was unlikely he was at all affected by the man's condition or where-abouts, even if he was his flat mate. This was probably some sort of mind game he would never understand (or try) because there was no way he would ever wrap his head around the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes.

"He's in the hospital, same as you; just down the hall…can you tell me what happened? Since, you know, you decided to wait until the last possible second to text me."

Sherlock seemed to stiffen at the word hospital and looked around…anxiously? No, probably just irritated.

"I was knocked unconscious…John threw me out of the lab and my head hit the ground…"

Sherlock ghosted his fingers over the mentioned injury.

"Yeah, yeah, we found you in the corridor out cold. Looked like some sort of explosion went off inside, you know what caused it?"

Sherlock's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and Lestrade was beginning to get the distinct feeling that the man may have actually been concerned.

"Must have been the chemical…they were using a highly unstable chemical in the hopes of producing ESP in their test subjects. Of course such a thing can be done but the test subjects had been taken against their will, that's why we were there…you said you found _me_ in the corridor…where did you find John?"

Lestrade could see that same sort of panic from before. He shuffled uncomfortably as Sherlock looked on from his bed. The man's stare was the most intense Lestrade had ever seen it. For a moment he wondered what it was about John that had done this to the man. Sherlock was now clearly upset and Lestrade could no longer deny that it seemed far too real to be just some mind game.

"We found him inside…his head crashed into one of the computer monitors…from the looks of it he was trying to cover the explosion with-with his body-"

"Idiot!"

"Sherlock! What he did was noble and brave, if he hadn't who knows how many of patients may have been further exposed, or hit with the explosion!"

Sherlock's head snapped to attention. He eyed Lestrade dangerously and lifted himself out of bed.

"What are the extent of his injuries detective inspector?"

Lestrade audibly swallowed and took a step back. He'd faced down killers before but Christ there was something terrifying about the look in those eyes.

"He…he has a major concussion obviously, um, a lot of gashes from the glass…burns from the explosion…he's pretty banged up."

"Yes, Lestrade, thank you for putting in so eloquently. Well…you're right, at least it was just John. Ordinary little John who's life is so meaningless _you_ detective inspector would offer him up for martyr hood at a seconds notice!"

At that Sherlock stormed our of his room no doubt in search of John. It was also then that Lestrade realized that the detective had fallen head over heals for that small army doctor and wondered whether, for once, _he_ had deduced something before the great Sherlock Holmes.

**Short I know, but the next one should be up super soon…probably with in the next hour or so if I can manage. Hope you liked!**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 2**

**Hopefully you're still with me here, hope you like!**

Sherlock awoke with a start and in a flash he saw the boy instantly vanish. Damn. That Infernal child had been appearing and disappearing for the past three days. It was important, Sherlock _knew_ it was important. It was something obvious, something buried deep. He desperately wanted to escape to his mind palace and hunt down the answers he craved, but John wouldn't let him. He hadn't said so of course, no, John had been in a coma-like state since the explosion. Yes, coma-like, because the doctors determined that John was not in fact in a true coma but suffering from an episode of catatonic schizophrenia, had been for quite some time according to the moronic on staff psychologist.

Sherlock was angry he'd never noticed, and that John wouldn't tell him. Well, he was angry at John for a lot of things right now. He had to be the hero, the brave soldier. He just _had_ to save all those pitiful fools. Idiot! John was the only one who mattered, he should know that! He should know that Sherlock can no longer function without him. And now there was this boy! There was this boy who was important somehow and Sherlock's mind was too cluttered to figure out why. The closest he got to even communicating with the boy was when he followed him to the hospital exist the other day where the child once again evaporated. Who _was _this boy? What did he want with Sherlock and John? He couldn't rule out that this may have something to do with the explosion, something less than…logical.

John takes in a sudden rush of air which snapped Sherlock to attention. He was at John's side in an instant, granted he hadn't been far. He clutched John's had and focused his gaze on John's lidded eyes, willing them to open.

"Come on John, please, you have to wake up."

Sherlock would be glad later no one was present for that plea as his voice broke tragically near the end. Right now however he was consumed by the dreadful fear that John could never wake up. The doctors had said that some victims of catatonic schizophrenia experienced these episodes for long periods of time, sometimes a month or more. Thos who go untreated are far more susceptible to longer episodes. Which of course Sherlock took as one more of John's stupidities, he decided to end his sessions with his therapist when Sherlock cured his limp. How could he be so dumb! Now apparently the explosion had triggered some traumatic memories, sending him into a catatonic state.

Sherlock lowered himself to the bed and rested his head on top of his and John's hands. The floor was cold, but he didn't take notice, he was crying now. Sobbing really, the sobs racked his figure violently as he held fast to John's hand.

"You bloody idiot, without you…I will die."

John had often claimed Sherlock to be over dramatic, he would have said the same thing now if he'd been mentally present, or if he had known just how honest those words truly were. Sherlock hadn't known he had fallen in love with John, not until he was powerless to do anything about it. He wanted John there to comfort him, say that he loved him too, that it would be ok. The man, however, remained silent.

**Next chapter will be longer, promise! We're getting to the plot, its coming, it exists! **


	3. Chapter 3

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 3**

Sherlock had grown used to (or, rather, bitterly accepted) that he was not allowed to stay at the hospital all night. Over the past week he also had grown used to waking in John's bed with tear streaked cheeks. He had not grown used to small hands wiping said tears away however. He sat up lightening fast and opened his eyes quickly to discover who had broken into the flat. He was greeted with the image of the young boy from the hospital looking shocked and uncertain as he laid next the man. Sherlock took in the boy's features hoping to find some useful deduction. He was small for his age (7 or 8), blonde shaggy hair jutting into his line of sight forcing his deep blue eyes to peek out from behind the golden spikes. He was wearing the same thing as usual, a Christmas jumper that was a bit too big for his frail frame and a pair of jeans that were better fitted if only for the fact they were so old (at least 2 years judging by the whole on his right knee). The boy got up from the bed and backed away slowly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, you just looked so sad."

Sherlock's head was whirling, the boy had never spoken before, nor had he ever appeared outside of the hospital. He stood up and began circling the boy, why was he here?

"How'd you get into my flat? Why have you been watching me? How can you disappear?"

Sherlock demanded answers. The boy shifted his footing and began twiddling his thumbs. After a moment he looked up at Sherlock with dampness to his eyes.

"I-I'm not Really sure. Something's wrong, I'm having trouble remembering…I keep fading…when I start to feel weak…or when my head starts to hurt again, I just-just fade. I'm not sure why, but I don't like it. It's not nice there, it's cold, and dark, and I can hear crying…"

He looked back up at Sherlock and seemed unsure if he should continue, if he should have said anything at all. He wasn't the type to communicate his feelings, clearly. Obviously he had to be very unsettled by the situation to be seeking help.

"It's yours…I'm not sure who you are, or who the man in the bed is, but-oh this sounds stupid, but, um, I'm not sure what's happening and I just thought maybe you would."

Sherlock looked intently at the young boy and leaned forward a bit to look more deeply into his eyes. The boy seemed to be telling the truth.

"What _do_ you remember then? And you didn't answer my question about the breaking in."

"I didn't break in! Or…at least I don't think so. I just woke up here, next to you. All I remember are stupid things, nothing to do with how I got here. I remember Mike saying he'd see me after his family's holiday in the country. My sister stole my favorite action figure…I was trying to make my mom a Christmas gift…then it's black, scary dark until there's this bright flash, next thing I know you're yelling at me for being in the hurt man's room…is he ok? The hurt man?"

Sherlock's throat closed up for a moment as he processed the question. He took in a deep breath and grounded himself before he responded.

"He's getting better. So your last memories are of Christmas holiday. Hmm, explains the jumper I suppose…alright, well give me your parent's phone number, I'll call them and they can get you the proper medical and mental care. I'll investigate further when John is better."

Sherlock strode over to his dressing robe, which he'd thrown to the floor the night before.

"Oh! His name is John? Mine too…are you sure you need to call my folks though? I feel like you're supposed to help me, it's one of the first things that came to mind when I saw you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes; the child was most likely a run away judging by his reluctance to contact his parents. He fetched his phone from his robe pocket and looked over at the child expectantly. He found that the boy had a look of wonder and curiosity as he locked eyes with the mobile. Sherlock looked from the boy to the phone. There was nothing particularly interesting about his phone as far as he knew.

"What is that?"

He seemed genuinely confused by the phone and came closer, never breaking eye contact with the device.

"Its…a phone."

Sherlock wasn't sure what the child was trying to get at, or what exactly he was up to. It was odd for him to be responding as he did. A child his age should know what a mobile looked like, so it seemed strange that he wouldn't be familiar with one. However the boy did look honestly confused.

"Nuh uh! It's not even attached to the land line! You've got no cord silly! Also you haven't even got the proper phone shape. That. That thing looks like something out of doctor who!"

Sherlock was becoming more and more curious about this boy, had he really never seen a mobile before?

"How old are you again?"

"I'm 8."

He said puffing out his chest slightly. Sherlock handed the phone over to the boy.

"Call your parents."

He said forcefully. If the boy really didn't know what it was it'd be quite clear by his facial expressions while attempting to make the call. It was possible to fool Sherlock by feigning not to recognize the phone, but he couldn't possibly hide his auto-response to handling the phone, certainly not under scrutiny.

"My dad is going to be awful mad…"

Sherlock smirked; run away kid was becoming a more viable theory. However the child seemed mystified by the object, a common household appliance!

"How do you…"

he pressed a few buttons and his face lit up when the numbers appeared on the screen.

"How does it do that!"

He was grinning ear to ear and Sherlock felt a new, highly illogical, theory crop up in his mind.

"Boy-"

"My name is John. I told you that. Only my dad calls me boy."

"What year is it… John?"

The boy looked confused and then simply scoffed.

"That's a silly question don't ya think? It's 1981, don't you own a calendar?"

Sherlock eyed the child; he didn't seem to be lying. Then the boy pressed his ear to the phone's screen.

"Hey, there's no dial tone on this, I think your phone is broken mister."

This was insane! How could this boy be from 1981? It had to do with the child's "fading" as he had called it. It just had to. But how? How was he here? And why?

"Don't bother, likely not the same number any more."

"What? I don't think-"

"John. Somehow, you have been transported to the future."

It sounded crazy, he knew that with out getting the disbelieving look from the boy. It was possible he had fabricated such a fantastic leap to distract him from _his_ John. But something told him that he was on to something.

"Future? Come on, you think I'm gonna buy that just cuz you got some pretend phone?"

Sherlock rushed out of the room, the child needed proof, fine.

"Come John!"

There was a sudden pang in his chest as he uttered that all too familiar phrase that had been so disused in the past weeks. He picked up the television remote and flipped to the news. John stood awe struck as the news caster read off the date and the headlining news. Some political scandal that was highly unimportant, what was important was that the child had realized that he had in fact been transported to the future.

"You see John."

John smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand, and Sherlock couldn't help but grin. He got some odd sense of enjoyment from surprising the boy.

"Oh man, my dad's gonna kill me, No _way_ am I allowed to travel to the future!"

Sherlock let out a chuckle, his first since John had gone into his coma. The boys innocence was endearing, even to Sherlock, which he only found a bit odd. It was possible that this child was somehow pulled from his timeline and placed into the future, in which case his father would most likely be nothing but ecstatic to have his child returned to him after a 30 year disappearance. Also, probably more than a little surprised to see the child hadn't aged at all.

"What is your father's name? I'm sure my brother will have no trouble tracking down his current phone number. I'll need to speak with him, gather data; he'll have to give me consent so I can perform a proper analysis of your biological make up."

"Um, ok, his name is Hamish Watson."

Sherlock froze, and then looked at the boy in shock and utter disbelief.

"But that would make you…"

"John Hamish Watson."

**Whoa! Plot thickens, or, rather has started. Next chapter…probably not so much. But we'll see. Just excited to finally put this one up! **


	4. Chapter 4

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 4**

**Oh! Things are going to start getting good! Well, in my opinion anyway. **

Sherlock tapped his fingers anxiously on his knee. The child looked just like John; he had even compared him to a family photo he had found in John's room. The child also seemed to know everything about John's like up until his eighth Christmas holiday. It seemed unlikely that the child was some sort of employee of Jim's, but not impossible. Far more logical than the alternative at any rate. It's possible Jim could have looked into John's past and trained this child to impersonate him in some attempt to "burn the heart" out of Sherlock. Although children rarely made good actors, and nothing about his actions seemed rehearsed. He needed some proof though, some sort of experiment. From how he made it sound he was still somewhat linked to John, as he had heard Sherlock when he'd faded away. So it was time to put it to the test.

The child was sitting far more confidently in his seat, taking in the sights of London, fascinated by the newer cars, clothes, gadgets he saw. Sherlock wondered what his response to seeing a 3D movie might be, could be entertaining. He imagined even the quality of their 2D films would be far superior from what he gathered from the movies John had made him watch.

As they pulled up to the hospital Sherlock paid the cabby and stepped out, the child followed closely behind and without hesitation slipped his small hand inside Sherlock's large one. Sherlock almost jumped at the sensation, he had never held hands before, not even in his youth. What exactly was the child up to? What was he trying to do?

"What are you doing?"

The child looked up at him now through wider eyes; he seemed to have lost some of his amazement and had become more nervous.

"I-I don't want to fade away again."

He said unable to meet Sherlock's eyes any longer and deciding instead to observe the ground. Sherlock couldn't help but become a bit panicked as well, he wasn't sure why, but the prospect that this child could be a form of John's subconscious was comforting and he didn't want him to just vanish. It wouldn't be so hard waiting for John to wake up if he had a little piece of him to keep him company.

"If you feel anything we can leave."

The child nodded in response but said nothing. It was clear that he was nervous, and yet he seemed so reserved. Sherlock's heart fluttered as he realized just how very 'John' that was. This little boy really did seem to be the real thing, but Sherlock tried not to get his hopes up. They made their way through the hospital doors and over to the elevator. As the metal doors closed behind them and they began their trip upward, the child's grip tightened. Sherlock looked down at him curiously, was he frightened? Looked so. If this was John this would be a once in a life time chance to learn things about John, things such as simple fears. John never appeared to be scared, not for himself anyway, he had seen him scared for someone else's well being countless times (many times Sherlock's).

"Scared?"

"No!"

The child answered far too quickly causing Sherlock to smirk. There was a red tint in the child's face that seemed to be a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

"I'm not scared. I told you I just don't want to fade away again…plus being around the sick man makes me feel strange. He doesn't look like a normal sick person, he doesn't look like he's sleeping, he just looks stuck…"

Sherlock agreed. He had seen John sleeping many times; he looked peaceful so long as he wasn't having a nightmare. But even a nightmare would be better than this, he fought in his nightmares. Presently John looked trapped in his body, a prisoner of his own mind. As they made their way to the room the nurses shot Sherlock a few quizzical looks, no doubt in response to the child that was clinging to him. He ignored them as usual however and simply strolled into John's room. There he found the feeling of remorse, longing, and disappointment that he had come to be familiar with. John was still stuck, his eyes glued shut. Sherlock drew a shaky breath and swallowed hard, why was it that he still found it so hard to look at John like this? He didn't understand these emotions, and John wasn't there to help him cope. Although…that might not be quite true, as the child gave a quick squeeze of Sherlock's hand and when he looked down he was met with those loving eyes that had followed him around London for so long. His breath caught and he had to fight back the urge to cry, it seemed almost unnecessary now to perform these tests, he would know those eyes anywhere. However the scientist in him knew it had to be done; besides it was important to know the nature of this connection.

"Take a seat, John."

The child sat himself in the small chair by John's bedside as Sherlock closed the door. He then shut the blinds so that he could perform his experiments without an audience. The child seemed to be uncomfortable and he wondered if perhaps (if this was in fact some physical embodiment of John's psyche) being around his body caused him discomfort.

"This should only take but a few moments John."

"Ok…what are we doing?"

"I'm just doing a few simple tests, nothing to worry about."

The child nodded, he seemed nervous, but it didn't seem to be over the tests. He kept pinching himself at random, probably some sort of method to reassure himself he was still solid. Sherlock withdrew a thumb tack and a small flash light from his coat pocket. He placed the thumb tack at the side table for the moment and made his way to John's side. He was under the sheets but Sherlock could still see how loose the hospital gown was, John had lost a considerable amount of weight since being admitted. For a moment Sherlock lost himself, he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, all he could do was stare at the small army doctor.

"You like him an awful lot don't you?"

The child asked as if it weren't really a question but a statement. Sherlock whipped his head around to observe child. He looked rather small in the hospital chair and didn't seem to realize how ludicrous his declaration was. Of course Sherlock _liked_ John. He loved him, but he didn't need it shoved in his face.

"Shush, I'm trying to concentrate."

"Sorry, you just had that look on your face."

"What look?"

"You know…_the_ look. The one you give when you love so much it hurts."

Sherlock blinked about one thousand times in response. The child was remarkably in touch for his age, more so than Sherlock at any rate. Sherlock turned back around, trying to put himself back on track. He needed to focus, he couldn't miss anything. He gently thumbed John's eye lid open and let the flash light hover over his eye for a moment. Then he quickly flicked the switch letting the light shine in John's eye.

"Oi! That's bright!"

The child squinted and tried to cover his own eyes. Sherlock turned off the light and let a smirk slowly emerge on his face. It was true that the boy could be acting, but all the evidence (and Sherlock's own intuition) said otherwise. He had one last test however. He pocketed the flash light and walked over to the side table. He picked up the thumb tack and walked back over to the child.

"What was that? Why did that happen?"

The boy looked curious and just a little bit panicked, and of course, as always, confused. If that wasn't a testament to how 'John' this child was he didn't know what was. He gave the small boy a smile and held out his hand. The child looked at it suspiciously but eventually placed his own inside it.

"I have a theory, John, and I have one last test. Just trust me, it won't hurt much."

"Much?"

Sherlock turned the child's hand and held onto his thumb. He took the thumb tack and affectively pricked the child and squeezed, a small orb of crimson appeared instantly.

"Hey! Ow, that wasn't cool."

Sherlock simply smiled in response and then turned back to John. He hadn't moved at all, Sherlock approached him and took hold of John's hand turning it over for observation. As he suspected, a small dot of blood adorned the man's thumb. He broke out in a blinding smile. This child, this wonderful boy, was John, _his_ John! It was too wonderful for words. He didn't know why or how this was possible, but it was. True, Sherlock would prefer to have full grown John back, but this was better than it had been before. At least now there would be some form of John there to keep him company while he waited. He looked back over at the child who was now sitting with his arms crossed.

"You could have warned me you know."

Sherlock's chest radiated with warmth, yes, there was no doubt that this was his John.

"Sorry won't happen again."

"Good."

Sherlock just let his smile grow, it might not be exactly what he wanted, but it was so much better than before. His momentary bliss was interrupted by the chirping of his phone. He rolled his eyes; he didn't need to look at the phone to know exactly who was calling.

"Ugh, Mycroft."

**Next chapter should be up very soon I hope! Should be nice, it's got some Mycroft, it's got some Greg, and just a dash of child endangerment!**


	5. Chapter 5

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 5**

**Here we go! Hope you like, I was really looking forward to writing this actually, I don't know why, but this whole chapter just seemed like too much fun. I'm a loser, what can ya do? **

He hadn't been surprised that his brother had learned about the younger John's presence so quickly, the man had nearly every street in Britain on CCTV at his disposal. He wasn't particularly excited about having to explain the situation, but he knew it was unavoidable. He requested that the nosey man pay a visit to 221b at around six in the evening. He decided on six for a couple of reasons, first was that he wanted ample time to stay with John at the hospital. Even with this new development he couldn't tear himself away from that body which he longed so desperately for. Also, the hospital trip gave him plenty of time to talk with younger John, who didn't seem to offer up much that Sherlock hadn't already known or couldn't have deduced. The experience was nice though. He also thought six was best because he knew that Lestrade would be able to attend without having to interfere with his work.

At first he wasn't sure if he wanted Lestrade to know, but he quickly came to realize that the man was around far too often for him not to notice the younger flat mate. If Sherlock was perfectly honest he'd have to admit that a small part of him wanted Lestrade to know so he could have someone to talk with about it. For the most part Sherlock felt relief that he had this piece of John, but there was also anxiety and confusion. He didn't know how John was doing this, or why, or if it was healthy. Did it have to do with his coma? He didn't know if John would wake up with this part of him walking about.

For some of the same reasons he had wanted to tell Mrs. Hudson as well, but he quickly decided against it. She couldn't know that this was little John, there's no telling what the shock might do to her heart. She would have to be informed of the child, and given some sort of explanation, just a more logical one. One that wouldn't put her heart or sanity at risk.

Currently Little John was using his laptop, and it apparently still held immense interest. Sherlock actually let out a loud chuckle when the young John had been introduced with the object and seemed to be filled with a great sense of wonder. Sherlock watched on in amusement for twenty minutes as John familiarized himself with the new technology. He was quick to learn which impressed Sherlock. Though it shouldn't, he knew John was intelligent.

The bell rang and Sherlock nearly rocketed out of his chair. John's face raised slightly from the computer screen to observe the tall man. Sherlock smiled down at him as he stood and straightened out his suit.

"You may want to go up to your bedroom; I don't want to shock them."

"Sure, you mean the room I woke up in this morning? That's mine? Weird, more boring than I'd have thought…ok."

John stood and scooped the laptop up in his arms cradling it on his way up the stairs. Sherlock smiled a bit and thought that over a minute. Boring? He had never thought John boring, how could little John think such a thing? What did he expect? He'd have to ask later, right now he had a far more pressing matter to attend to. He hurried down the stairs to greet the two men, he was brimming with excitement. He swung the door open and waved the two of them in. not bothering with useless 'hellos', he bounded back up the stairs wishing they would hurry up. They followed hesitantly and seemed unsure of themselves. Or, at least Lestrade did, Mycroft just looked as though he were his normal nosey and speculating brother.

"What's this all about then?"

Lestrade asked looking about suspiciously.

"Yes, I must say even I am uncomfortably lacking in information. Where did he come from, and who is he?"

Mycroft questioned while studying his umbrella rather than looking at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, who is who?"

Lestrade was, unsurprisingly, confused. Sherlock smirked; he liked being the one who held all the cards, especially when his brother was involved.

"My brother would be referring to the young boy currently residing upstairs."

"I'm sorry, what? A boy?"

"Yes Lestrade, please do keep up."

Mycroft gave a warning glance and twirled his umbrella.

"Sherlock, please, I have no time for dramatics. Just explain to me the boy's presence."

Sherlock looked between the two men. He gave them a playful grin before resting his hands in a prayer like manner under his chin.

"He is not a boy at all, actually. He is in fact a projection of John as his eight year old self, no doubt an after affect of the explosion."

Lestrade's mouth practically unhinged it opened so wide. Mycroft gave a simple nod.

"Hmm, yes, I was afraid something like this might happen."

"You-what? I'm I the only one who's sane any more? I'm supposed to believe there is a kid up there who's some imaginary John Watson? Bullocks."

"You can believe what you want Lestrade, I was simply informing the two of you. I have gathered all the necessary data and come to the only plausible explanation. The boy feels pain, John and him are definitely linked, he shares all of the same memories up until his 8th Christmas. That's important, but it's the why I'm not sure of yet."

"Even if I'm to believe this-which I'm not-is this really the place for a kid? I mean, can you take care of a kid?"

Sherlock thought that over, he had never been particularly fond of children; they never had much to offer intellectually. John was different though, he was…John. He had never been responsible for another person; he rarely was responsible for himself as John informed him. He could do it though, for John, yes, there was no doubt.

"Yes, I most certainly can."

Mycroft let out one of his annoying know-it-all laughs and Lestrade seemed equally unmoved. Sherlock nearly stomped his foot in a fit of rage. He didn't appreciate their lack of faith.

"You? Sherlock, you cannot be serious, you are not the nurturing type. You'll forget to feed him…neglect him, you wouldn't notice if he just got up and left. I guarantee you that he can't accompany you to crime scenes. Another thing, just look around your flat, you really think this is the place to keep a child? You've got more than a few lethal experiments."

Mycroft prattled on, and it only made Sherlock angrier. He could take care of John, he knew he could.

"Well, he's staying here. I need to observe him; I have a feeling that his age and loss of memory have something to do with John's coma."

"Well if that's true then I can have him sent to a facility-"

"No. He stays with me, John stays here, do you understand Mycroft? I didn't invite you two over for your opinions I was simply relaying the facts. You are now informed and honestly you could leave now for all I care."

The two men looked at each other and then returned their stares back to Sherlock. Just then, little John came running down the stairs, shocking both Mycroft and Lestrade. Sherlock took just a moment to relish in the stupid look on Mycroft's face. He turned over to observe John who appeared overwhelmed. Sherlock felt a flash of panic, had he already failed, had John gotten hurt?

"John? What's wrong? What happened?"

He rushed over to the boy and ran his fingers along the boy's flushed face.

"On the-the, um…laptop! On the laptop, there-ohmygod-you won't believe this, these girls they-they're kissing! Right there in the laptop! But the pizza boy just got there and-and-and, you gotta come see this!"

Lestrade's head almost exploded with the amount of effort he was putting forth at not cracking up right there. Mycroft had let that hated smug look creep back onto his face, which only made the whole thing worse for Sherlock. He didn't know how to handle this; really, it was…no where in his mind palace he was sure. He coughed awkwardly and tried to keep his composure as he looked into the big blue eyes that seemed to be waiting desperately for a response.

"I don't know how they got there Sherlock but it's like tv, only…with less clothes, I've never seen anything like it! Is that what girls do when they're alone? Do they all like pizza boys like that? Why? Is it the pizza? Or maybe that hat?"

His small mind was obviously more than a little excited about the new discovery. Sherlock placed a clammy hand on the small John's shoulder, mostly to steady himself.

"Maybe we take a break from the laptop, hmm?"

"But, Sherlock, I wanna know what they plan on doing! They keep saying do it, do it, do it! Do what? And why do they keep using bad words so much? Who are these people? Do you know them?"

"No. That-that, is a…bad film. We are not to watch things like that. Where did you even find that?"

John's face fell at the word 'bad'. He began twiddling his thumbs and dropped his eyes to the floor. Before answering he took several shaky breaths.

"On that web, I was just clicking things…I'm not so sure I know how to use it yet…I didn't know it was bad, I'm sorry."

He looked back up at Sherlock with pleading eyes. Sherlock's heart almost broke, how did the child move him so. Lestrade had finally stopped laughing long enough to walk over to get a better look at the child, Mycroft had also loomed closer. He wanted to lash out at the two of them, someone other than himself had to be to blame for the heart wrenching look on John's face.

"Don't worry mate, happens to the best of us."

Lestrade offered as a means of cheering John up. He looked up at the detective inspector with a weak smile. Mycroft soon took hold of his attention though as the man hovered over them with a usual air of authority.

"Young man, do you wish to stay here, with Sherlock?"

Sherlock almost swung at Mycroft. How could he be so horrid, didn't he know how important it was that John be with Sherlock at all times? He needed this little John, and more importantly he needed him to wake up the currently catatonic John. The small child looked up at Mycroft and then back down to Sherlock; his face seemed full of imperceptible emotion.

"Yes, he's supposed to help me, I think he's the only one who can."

He never broke eye contact with the lanky detective, although he did give a warm smile. Sherlock's heart did a back flip; John wanted to stay with _him_!

"There, Mycroft, happy?"

Sherlock stood and adorned a smug face of his own but his brother merely gave a disapproving scoff. Lestrade kept studying the boy, not convinced yet of the reality of his existence. After another moment of intense stares, there was a small gurgling noise and the three men became mildly confused.

"Sorry, I'm hungry."

John said sheepishly. Sherlock shot the boy a confused look; he had forgotten it was 'dinner time'. Lestrade and Mycroft sent expectant stares at Sherlock. Right. Time to prove that he could do this! Children were too incapable of caring for themselves, so telling him to go make himself some food was out of the question. However he had no idea what children liked to eat. John liked many things, but there was no telling what he may have liked as a child, taste buds developed over a life time.

"What would you like to eat?"

Sherlock asked rushing over to the fridge. Upon opening it he realized that with John gone, there was no one to do the shopping. They had a sour pint of milk, a pickled human ear, and some beer. Not useful. He searched through all of the cubards and came up with a plate of cookies Mrs. Hudson had brought over to cheer Sherlock up.

"How about cookies?"

John gave a look of thrilled disbelief.

"Yeah!"

"No."

Lestrade said sternly. John instantly seemed to become disappointed.

"You don't feed 8 year old's cookies for dinner. He needs sustenance. Either go shopping or take him out."

With that Sherlock through down the plate of cookies and went towards the door.

"Come John, there's a lovely woman downstairs who I'm sure is more than willing to make you dinner."

John quickly came to his side leaving behind the detective inspector and minor government employee.

"This is a bad idea Sherlock."

"Well Mycroft, we'll just have to see about that."

**Hope it was ok! Sorry I just couldn't stop laughing about the idea of kid John running into internet porn, I'm horrible I know.**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 6**

**FLUFF! Ye who seek plot, be warned, you'll not find the likes of it here! Arrr!**

Sherlock would probably never admit it out loud, but he did truly enjoy the younger John's presence. Over the past few days the child had become a constant comforting reminder that John was still alive, that even while he couldn't be at the hospital he could still keep a watchful eye on the man. His hospital visits stayed just as frequent though, the younger John would accompany him and they would pass the hours talking about mostly trivial things. Sherlock wasn't bored once however, he actually delighted in hearing the younger John tell stories of his boyhood. All new data he could store away. He relished in new data, new pieces of information about John he couldn't deduce. He had never known John's love for jam sprang from his fond memories of canning the sweet substance with his grandmother who had her own homemade recipes. He could have never guessed that John developed his drive to be a doctor from a 'near death' (as John had recalled him and his three friends falling down a steep hill in some wooded area) experience in which his two friends had been scraped up badly, John had too but he said he was used to it (interesting, concerning, to be analyzed later), he tended to his two friends and helped them home. Since that day John had decided he wanted to be a doctor. Sherlock loved John's childhood tales; it was clear John had possessed his excellent story telling skills from a young age. He told a story with such vigor it brought a smile to the detective's face.

When he wasn't telling stories he was asking questions. The new advances in technology and fashion weren't his only concerns though, he was curious about his older self. Not surprising, Sherlock would be similarly intrigued if given the same scenario. He humored the boy and answered as many question as he could. Although, he didn't expect it to be so hard to relay some of the facts to the child. With anyone else it would have been a simple matter, but with John, nothing was simple. Yes he knew John had been shot in the shoulder a long time ago, it hadn't been fatal, and he knew logically that it shouldn't bother him to state this to the child. When the little John asked about what he grew up to be, and Sherlock had proudly informed him that he had been an army medic, had made it to the rank of captain in her majesty's army, and then told him that he was now retired as a doctor at a local surgery. Well of course John had to ask why; John was such a curious man, and an even more curious child. Sherlock stumbled over his words, how could he tell the boy he would be shot? He couldn't lie to him though, that was out of the question, but he had wanted to. Yes, he had really wanted nothing else than to think up a pretty lie. Instead he told the truth, which he had expected to make John panicked, anxious, and scared. Being shot was a horrible thing, Sherlock knew because to think about John being shot now made Sherlock's stomach twist. To Sherlock's surprise John was calm, he even looked a bit proud. John was always a mystery.

Sherlock supposed that he was also a mystery, even to himself. He really did astound himself with how easy it became to take care of the child, and even preform mundane domestic tasks. Shockingly, he came to enjoy some of them. Cooking food had always seemed so pointless, but he loved waking up in the mornings and seeing how thrilled John was to be stirring pancake batter or the proud look on his face when he peeled potatoes for dinner. Laundry was another thing he earlier found was something hardly worth his time, he'd had John take care of the chore, but now he was fond of folding tee-shirts and making forts out of bed sheets. He discovered that cleaning the dishes wasn't so dreadful either as him and John made a game of finding new creative place to store the dishes each time. It was obvious to him that it was John that made the tasks fun, not the new innovations. So while he was happy to spend time with this younger John, beneath his mirth was an underlying sense of longing. He wanted John, _his_ John, the one he fell in love with.

**Ok, I know it's super short, but I PROMISE there is more coming very soon. Ok, promise, super soon, maybe even later tonight. Right now I'm being dragged to the movies though! UGH, social life **


	7. Chapter 7

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 7**

**Should have had this up sooner, I know, sorry! **

Sherlock ran up the stairs two at a time careful to avoid younger John's shoes. He had gone to visit John at the hospital and the younger had decided he'd rather stay and help Mrs. Hudson bake. Sherlock had a feeling the child still had difficulties being around his older self, he seemed uncomfortable in the room still. Obviously the two of them had finished the cookies as the smell filled 221b. As he walked into the flat it only grew stronger and he could see the two of them residing in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was cleaning up the dishes and John appeared to be icing his last cookie. He was almost done by the looks of it, as he had his tongue stuck out in concentration and was scraping the last remnants of icing out of the container. Clearly he had put himself into the assignment whole-heartedly as he had bits of the frosting smeared on is fore arms and face. Despite his sleeves being rolled up he had still managed to make a mess of his shirt while Mrs. Hudson made it out relatively unscathed. Sherlock removed his coat and scarf placing them carelessly on the sofa. The soft thud they produced caused both Mrs. Hudson and John to become aware of his presence and turn to face him. Their faces lit up, but John was certainly more excited, which of course brought a smile to Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock, how good to see you back! We're just finishing up here; John made you a bit of a surprise."

Mrs. Hudson informed him with one of her loving smiles; she turned back around to finish wiping up but seemed to have most of her attention directed at John. Sherlock walked over to the kitchen table where John was scrambling to finish his cookie, he hurriedly threw a handful of sprinkles at the thing before deciding that he was done.

"I made this for you!"

He said brimming with pride and enthusiasm. Sherlock came closer to observe the pastry which appeared to be a large misshapen heart with far too much pink frosting on it, Sherlock's name had also been spelled out with chocolate chips and the entire thing was covered with the handful of red sprinkles John had just thrown at it. Sherlock let a large smile take hold of his face and couldn't help but take his hand and ruffle little John's hair. Mrs. Hudson finished what she was doing and headed towards the door, before she left though she turned to speak.

"There's a lot of love in that cookie Sherlock, best not let it go to waste."

She then winked and proceeded down the stairs. Sherlock stared at the entrance way for a moment then back down at John who had one of the deepest blushes on his face. Before Sherlock could say anything Mrs. Hudson was calling back up the stairs.

"John, love, please do keep your shoes off the stairs, we wouldn't want anyone to trip now, would we?"

With that there was a quite click of her door and Sherlock couldn't help but grin at the pure domesticity of it. He turned back to John, but his blush was now replaced with a grey hue. He now seemed almost sick, as if in the past few moments he'd grown very ill. Sherlock stooped down and pressed the palm of his hand to the child's forehead, he didn't feel feverish. He began to panic, was John fading? Would he come back? Did this mean his body was in danger? When he left the hospital everything seemed fine!

"John, John, are you ok? What's wrong?"

John's eyes were probably only a fraction wider than Sherlock's at this point as he stared blankly at the detective's face. Sherlock now pressed his palm to John's cheek, and searched the child's large blue eyes for some sort of clue as to what was wrong.

"John, what is it? I can't help if I don't have any data."

At that John finally met the tall man's gaze and tried to give a smile but failed half way through. His bottom lip began to tremble and he took a large step backwards.

"I-I'm sorry, I know the rules, I was just so excited when we got back from the store…I didn't mean to leave them there…I should no better, I know…I just-"

John started to cry with the vigor and breathlessness that only a young child seems to have to power to. He took in several large and shaky breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Sherlock approached in hopes of trying to comfort the child. Did he really think it was such a horrible thing to leave his shoes on the steps? At Sherlock's advancement John shuffles backwards.

"No here, I'll get it. I'm sorry, I-here."

He takes his trembling hands and begins undoing his belt buckle, then pulls it free. Upon freeing his belt he offered it over to Sherlock, shaking almost violently now. Sherlock took hold of the belt and looked down at the child with confusion. He left his shoes on the stairs…so he looses his belt? What sort of ritual is this?

"Why…John, why did you take off your belt?"

He shifted awkwardly and couldn't meet the detective's gaze, then rubbed his right arm nervously as he tried to search for his voice.

"Wo-would you rather use yours? My dad normally uses mine cuz he doesn't want his dirty, ya know, cuz sometimes it bleeds a bit…I'm really sorry Sherlock, I really am, I like you a lot I didn't mean to break the rules! I've been trying real hard to be good, honest! I even organized your books!"

He pointed a shaky finger towards the books on the table that seemed to be organized by their colors. Sherlock nearly gasped in realization. The child intended him to…hit him with it? He was expecting a beating for leaving shoes out on the stairs? It hardly seemed reasonable, such a harsh punishment for a harmless case of forgetfulness. Sherlock dropped the belt to the floor as if it were poisoned. He had suspected John's father of negligence, but now it was a fact, one that made him want to vomit. As a child Sherlock had blown up entire_ rooms_ at their family's estate and been given nothing more than a new nanny! He edged closer to John and placed his hand hesitantly on the child's head.

"John, I would never do such a thing to you, you must know that."

The child looked up at him with confused disbelief. He didn't seem to quite understand what Sherlock was saying.

"I…I'm not supposed to leave my shoes on the stairs though…it's dangerous…"

He was certainly as a loss for words. Sherlock rested on his knees in front of the child and placed a hand on each of his tiny shoulders.

"John, I would never do anything that hurt you. _Never_. No matter what you did, I couldn't. It's impossible."

John seemed to calm down a bit and stopped shaking so violently. He looked into Sherlock's eyes with a lack of understanding that made Sherlock's heart want to weep.

"W-why?"

"Because, John, when you love someone it becomes your whole purpose to make sure they are never hurt, or in pain. Because of that it is impossible to hurt them yourself, do you understand?"

Sherlock had said it before he even had time to process what he was saying. He had just admitted to John that he loved him. Granted it was little John, but there was no telling whether or not John would remember when he woke up. He would have reeled back in shock and horror if it weren't for the large and goofy smile that replaced John's tears.

"You love me?"

"Y-yes John. I do, very much."

With that the small child wrapped his arms around Sherlock and gripped tightly, as if to never let go. Sherlock found himself hugging back as well.

"I love you too."

**Sorry it took so long to get this up guys, I'll try and get the next one up quicker, maybe even post 2 tomorrow. I've got a few exams this week though so tomorrow might be my last update for a bit.**


	8. Chapter 8

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 8**

**Sorry! This should have been up way sooner!**

Sherlock sat with his knees drawn up under his chin. He hadn't wanted to admit his feelings for John just yet, he wasn't ready. He wasn't entirely sure of how these things were supposed to proceed; he didn't know what was proper, or polite, or what would be acceptable. What if he hurt John? What if he hurt himself? John could reject him, just because this younger John was fond of him didn't mean that the John lying back in that hospital bed was going to want to wake up and be in a romantic relationship with him. It was a happy thought, but not a logical one. John knew him, knew what he was like, how horrible he was, younger John was just naïve.

A low creek from upstairs caused Sherlock's head to snap in the direction of the stairs. He knew for a fact that this was the sound that John's window made when being pried open. He had opened it himself several times to gain access to the window ledge and jump over to the neighboring building's fire escape, it was a bit tricky, but it was a decent way to avoid Mycroft's cameras that were aimed at the main entrance. However it was likely John had just wanted fresh air in his room…although that would be odd given the cold and rainy weather they were experiencing. He quietly rose from his chair to get closer to the steps, hoping to hear some indication of John's next move. Soon there was a faint squeak that was the unmistakable sound of a small body supporting it self on the frail window still. Sherlock bolted up the stairs in record time thinking of nothing but making sure that he got there before John made another move. He swung the door open with great force, which caught the child off guard. He peered over his shoulder at Sherlock, half way through the window and on his way to sneaking into the night. Or so he had thought before one consulting detective found him. He straightened himself out and gave Sherlock a sheepish smile.

The tall man said nothing; he merely made his way over to John and promptly lifted him out, and placed him down. While no words came to his mouth his body language spoke volumes, he was _furious_. What had young John been intending to do? Run away? Did he have any idea how dangerous it was to be out at night in the city? Did he have any idea how many cases he had reviewed that involved some child being abducted and killed by the monsters who roamed those cold streets? Sherlock normally found those cases boring as they were normally perpetrated by someone who knew the victim and the criminals were predictable. If it were John it wouldn't be boring though. No. If it were John it would be soul crushing, earth shattering, and life ending. It would be the end of Sherlock. Because while this may not be John's real body, from what he observed, what this child experienced John would too. So they would almost certainly share death.

John twiddled his thumbs and looked to the floor guiltily; he let out a shaky sigh and Sherlock took that opportunity to also let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. John only took one brief moment to eye the window before going back to staring intently at the floor. Sherlock tried to control the whirring anger in his mind caused by the child's stupidity.

"John. What were you doing?"

He asked, attempting to sound as calm as possible. It obviously still had a bit of venom to it as John flinched at the words. He twiddled his thumbs faster and intensified his staring contest with the floor.

"John. Answer me. _Now_."

Sherlock was running out of patience, not that he had had much to start out with, but what he was left was wearing very thin. John tried and failed to look him in the eyes.

"I-I…I was going to the hospital."

That was something he hadn't expected, he hadn't known what to think, but he definitely would not have seen that coming. His expression softened only a fraction however.

"You realize how late it is? It's dangerous in the city at night. You could have been hurt."

"I know…but I kept thinking…"

"About?"

"Lot's of things…like how I'm not getting any closer to remembering anything…and the way the man (well…the older me) feels…and, well, mostly what you said earlier."

Sherlock studied the small child's face, he wasn't sure what to think now, but he was curious.

"How is it that the man makes you feel? And what is it that I said that drove you to be standing in a window at 10 o'clock."

"Well….He makes me feel…bad. Like I'm doing everything wrong. He's angry, he wants us to remember, but I can't. My dreams don't help; they don't show me anything past my starting to make my mother's Christmas present. Then what I did remember was what you said earlier, about the people we love…I, well, I wanted to go wake up John, I wanted to go shake him till he was awake, even if it made me fade back to that scary place. Because…because I love you too, and I can tell that him being asleep is hurting you, and I would do anything to stop you from hurting."

Sherlock knew he was holding his breath now, and he must have turned three shades darker. John looked dejected and as if he had failed miserably. Sherlock wanted to move, to comfort him, but he couldn't. He was stuck, frozen in place. There was such a shock that came with those words, that confession that told Sherlock that he was truly loved. John broke the silence by moving forward and hugging Sherlock's legs which he had only the will power to place his hands the small child's back.

"Don't ever listen to me again, understood?"


	9. Chapter 9

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 9**

**Yes I have an exam today, yes I should be studying, and no I am not. Oh god, somebody please tell my brain I need to graduate! Sorry it's so short though, next one will be longer…I hope. **

A few nights had past since John had tried to sneak out of his bedroom and Sherlock was starting to become more anxious than usual. He didn't feel any closer to figuring out John's lost memories. He didn't want to pressure the child, but he was beginning to start worrying. John had been in his coma for over a month now and he was afraid that maybe they'd be stuck like this forever. This posed more than a few issues, issues which he didn't care to deal with. No matter how terribly he wanted John to remember though; there was nothing he could do. He couldn't force him to remember the information, and it was even difficult to give him a slight push. This memory was traumatic, something so horrible John had blocked it from of his conscious mind, and he had developed a mental disorder because of whatever happened on this day. At least that was the conclusion Sherlock had come to. John might have been abused prior to this day, which seemed highly likely given the belt incident, but this day was the origin of his deep mental trauma. This was the day where it became too much. So while he wanted John to remember so he could heal and come out his coma, a selfish part of him wanted John to never remember. He didn't want him to have to remember this horrible thing, to suffer through that pain again.

He had waited too long; he knew that, he really should have been putting more effort forth. Irritatingly enough, Mycroft and Lestrade had even said so. They understood Sherlock's hesitance, but didn't seem to care nearly as much. They didn't care how this would torture John; they didn't get that horrible, gut-wrenching, heart breaking pain about thinking of John hurt. Now he really had to get started. John would probably be upset he had taken this long, little John had said he seemed angry. Sherlock was worried where that anger might be directed.

It is because of these events, and reasoning's, that Sherlock now found himself glued to a computer screen. Younger John and him had arrived at the flat a little over twenty minutes ago and the child was currently eating his Chinese take away. He had found some cartoon to hold his attention which contained characters with annoyingly high pitched voices; Sherlock would have shut the telly off if it weren't for how entertained John appeared to be. Despite the shrill noises he plunged himself into research. He needed to find information on John's family, any information. Anything that could help revive the child's memories. After the shoe episode he had been able to recall finishing his mother's Christmas gift and retrieving his action figure. So it stood to reason that with additional stimulus John could remember more details. It was a long shot, there was likely not much on the internet that could provide information that was pertinent to his condition. He started by looking into school records and finding John's grades plummeted after the holiday break, only to recover about a full two years later. Abusive home lives did tend to interfere with a child's school work. However the fact that he recovered meant he was either relocated, the abuser relocated, or it was a more specific event rather than a continuous abuse. Not enough data to make an accurate deduction.

"Sherlock?"

John's panicked voice ripped Sherlock's eyes away from the computer screen and brought them to the child. He was shaking and gripping onto his arm violently, his breaths starting to come out in shallow pained huffs.

"John?"

Sherlock jumped from his chair and rushed over to the child. He took hold of the small arm and held it close for observation. The skin was being sliced by some invisible force, forcing blood to billow at the surface and spill over. Sherlock attempted to hold pressure to the wound with his hand while he searched the room for something more suitable. To his disgust he could feel the flesh move beneath his grasp as the arm continued to be assaulted. He quickly decided that the discarded scarf lying near by would have to do. He pressed the fabric to John's arm and held it firmly.

"Sherlock, it hurts!"

The child had tears streaming down his face and Sherlock could hardly contain his own combination of panic and fury. His blood was running cold and he practically vibrated with rage. Someone was at the hospital, and they were cutting John.

"I know, you're going to have to be brave ok? I'm going to fix this. Is it still cutting?"

John shook his head nervously, he was beginning to have less of a time struggling to keep his breathing even but continued to allow tears to streak across his cheeks. Tentatively Sherlock raised the bloodied scarf to examine the damage. He couldn't help but take in a quick inhalation of breath as he became aware that the cuts were in fact spelling out a message. A message that was intended for one Sherlock Holmes.

_I know your secret._

**Anyone who read my other story should know that there was bound to be a cliff hanger soon! Hopefully I can get back to this soon for you guys, I should…no promises though.**


	10. Chapter 10

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 10**

**Omg, double digits! Who knows why that's important. I sure don't. **

There are many things in this world, that if you asked Sherlock Holmes, he would tell you were impossible. Him asking for his brother's help was one of those things. Tonight however, Sherlock didn't give a damn, John was in danger, and that meant using every resource available. Even if they're snobby older brothers. So Sherlock hadn't wasted anytime in dialing up his brother to inform him of the situation, which of course he was already aware of. His agents had been monitoring John's room since he was admitted, and there for were on hand to intercept the man who attacked him. Sherlock wanted to rip him limb from limb, but first he needed answers. Mycroft promised him a few minutes with the man once they'd finished with him. That was fine, Sherlock wanted to look after the two Johns first.

Of course John was still unconscious, but obviously aware. The child _was_ just an extension of John's mind, it just so happened he was suffering from some sort of amnesia. So it was evident Sherlock had to help the child, help him so he can help John. He had to figure this out, what happened on that day. He put it off far too long, and now John was in danger because he couldn't protect himself anymore. That left him with only one option; first, find out who discovered John and what they wanted with him. Second, he had to keep John safe, and that meant keeping John away from these people and uncovering what happened.

He stared through the one sided mirror at the man sitting in the interrogation room. He had dark blonde hair and battered tan skin, what struck Sherlock the most though were his eyes. His eyes were brown, but there was something else, something…off. He didn't like the feeling looking into those eyes gave him. Some how those eyes seemed to look through the glass and right through Sherlock as well. This was a man who had no qualms with killing an innocent man. He would have no problem killing John.

Mycroft stepped in behind Sherlock twirling his umbrella; he took little notice of the politician as he continued to stare into the man's eyes.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't break eye contact.

"Sherlock…John's attacker, his name is Sebastian Moran. He was a lieutenant in the army before being dishonorably discharged, and based on what intelligence I've gathered he is now employed for one James Moriarty. He has refused to speak to anybody but you."

Sherlock moved, finally, to make his way into the room. He ignored what Mycroft was now trying to say, which wasn't hard with how loud the high pitched screech of anger resonating from his mind was. He took several swift steps and burst into the interrogation room full of rage.

"How does he know?"

Sebastian gave an evil smirk and held back a cruel chuckle.

"How. Does. He. Know."

Sherlock annunciated packing as much hate into each syllable as humanly possible. Sebastian composed himself and moved his pitiless eyes so that they bore holes through Sherlock's skull.

"How does he know anything? He just does. He's Moriarty, the greatest there's ever been."

"Cute, I see Jim's got himself a pet then."

Sebastian's face contorted into something monstrous. The man rolled his head around cracking his neck then bringing it back to rest so that he could glare at Sherlock.

"I prefer partner. Besides…we're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about you, you and your little _boyfriend_."

Sherlock gritted his teeth; he didn't like this man talking about John. He didn't like it one _bit_.

"What does he want? To _burn_ me?"

Moriarty had threatened John's life before, at the pool, and a few idle threats over the year, but he'd never acted. Not until now.

"Precisely. You've made it far too easy now, John in a coma…but he's got that freak running about, he's connected to him. Unfortunate, side affects of the explosion and his own personal failings…or at least that's what Jim says."

Sherlock tensed up, Jim had found out too much for his liking. Never mind the how now, all that mattered was knowing what the mad man had planned.

"So, what, he plans to just kill him? Seems a bit boring for him."

Sebastian smiled fondly as if he was _proud_.

"Yes, well, that's why that isn't his plan. You see, John has got himself a little gift. Something that could be potentially useful once he wakes up. Who knows what he'll be capable of. So, you see, I'm just the messenger."

"What's the message then?"

Sebastian leaned himself closer to Sherlock and locked his eyes on the taller man's with heated intensity.

"He'll be watching, and when John is awake…well there won't be much time for celebration. Jim has plans for the man, he's hiring some specialists…he's going to test him, experiment on him; he's going to figure out as much as he can. Then, once he's taken every ounce of his humanity and harnessed this new ability…he's going to use it against you."

He let a large menacing smile take hold of his face as Sherlock backed towards the door, not being able to take any more.

"He's going to make you choose. You can be killed by the man you love…or you can kill him yourself."

As Sherlock swung the metal door open Sebastian broke out into a sadistic cackle. The door slammed behind him summoning Mycroft from the observation room along with Anthea. He turned towards the two with a furious glare.

"Bring me my riding crop."

He demanded of the woman. Mycroft gave him a stony look before nodding at his assistant. Sherlock waited none too patiently for Anthea to return with his weapon of choice. He planned to send a message of his own. No one, _no one_, hurts John Watson.

**Oh! You know shit is about to get real! Whoa, you can thank Alie for the riding crop idea, nice touch I think.**


	11. Chapter 11

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 11**

**Here you go! Study? No, no of course I'm studying! **

"Sherrrrrrrrlock!"

"John?"

Sherlock was a very intelligent man who knew many things. However, all intelligent men have a blind spot. For Sherlock it had always been people and he had grown to accept this as what he considered his _only_ blind spot. Now it was apparent that he would have to add a sub-category: children. John's younger personification was becoming restless as they were confined within the walls of Mycroft's facility. Sherlock was beginning to understand how John felt when he became bored between cases.

"I'm boooorrrrreedddddd!"

John seemed far more agitated then Sherlock had ever seen him, man or child. He was pacing the room and it was, to say the least, distracting. Sherlock had Mycroft's people looking into the Watson family history, contacting relatives, searching through town archives, so far little was known about what happened on the date in question. Until they came back with any data for him to sort through, he was trying to probe John to see if he'd remembered anything. So far…he'd just heard the same story repeated in a whinier voice. Instead of being able to retreat to his mind palace to review the facts, search for anything that might have been missed, he was being forced to listen to John spiral out of control.

"What would you have me do John? We cannot leave, it's not safe. I've given you a toy, you're imaginative, go amuse yourself."

"You gave me a lighter. I'm not even supposed to touch a lighter, my mom told me so…can we please go for a walk? Something? I don't like it in here."

Sherlock peered at the child with a side long glance, then turned back to the older John lying in bed.

"No. I don't want to leave your body alone. Not after last night."

John let out a whiney moan and pulled at his hair.

"Then tell him to SHUT UP!"

John yelled hotly and then covered up his ears fiercely. Sherlock stood up and made his way to the distressed child.

"John, I'm sorry, is he _communicating_ with you? Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

John continued to press his hands to the sides of his head, but he lessened his grip slightly.

"I have been telling you, I told you about the feelings from before. I've never been around him for so _long_. You left alone yesterday to talk to the bad man and he started all the yelling! Then, last night, he sends me all these pictures in my sleep! I know it was him, cuz it's stuff I don't know…stuff about us, me and him, doing things."

Sherlock took a moment to process the information, John had been separating consciousness between is physical form and his projected boy form but somehow they were still meshing. He couldn't tell if this was good or bad yet but at the very least it was new information, and it could prove useful.

"What sorts of things have you been hearing? What things does he yell at you, what images have you seen?"

He edged closer to John and tried his hardest to sound sympathetic and encouraging. It must have worked at least a little as John lowered his hands finally.

"Well…I hear your name…a lot. He yells to remember, he's getting worried, more worried by the minute. About you, about taking care of you, he…he keeps just saying I have to remember. Then in my sleep I just see flashes of things, weird random things, like my shoes and my belt and dirt and…blood. I don't know what it means though, it didn't help me remember, it's just even more confusing!"

He was working himself up again, becoming agitated with his current state. Sherlock placed his hands on John's cheeks in an attempt to both hold the child still and make him hold Sherlock's stare. He wanted to calm John, but his now burning desire to search out the truth was clouding his thoughts. He needed to analyze these images, review all of the intelligence Mycroft's agents were gathering. More than that though was the fact that Sherlock had no idea how to comfort the child. He attempted a supportive smile but it was lost on John, he simply stared.

"John…I'm sorry you have to go through this, but with any hope this will all be over soon. I will figure this out."

The child stepped back freeing himself of Sherlock's grasp. His eyes began to glaze over ever so slightly and his features seemed to slump.

"I know. I know you will. I'm sorry, it's just hard. He wants us to remember so _bad_, and I know you do too, but I just _can't_. I-"

John broke eye contact to look down at the tiled floor before squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

"I'm sorry I'm so _stupid_."

He opened his eyes again to glare at the floor letting some frustrated tears escape. Sherlock felt a strong pang in his chest; he didn't like to see John in this state. He had to know it wasn't his fault that he couldn't remember. For as much as Sherlock wanted to blame John for throwing himself on that explosion he couldn't ignore the fact that John would have never been there if not for Sherlock.

"John…you're not stupid-"

"You don't need to lie! I know you think I am, last night, I saw you calling me an idiot! He showed me, and how much you love that Irene, and Jim, cuz they're so much smarter! He keeps telling me to ignore my feelings, that I'm embarrassing him, that I'm ruining everything, just like I always do…He says you'll leave us, just like mummy."

Sherlock stilled, every molecule in his body slamming to an abrupt stop. John really felt that way? That he liked those two more than John? Impossible, they were no where near as kind or loyal as John! He felt embarrassed…Sherlock really hoped that meant what he thought it did, but didn't want to get his hopes up. Although…_ignore his feelings_? It was just too good to be true. In the undercurrent of hope, excitement, and guilt over John's emotions, he could feel a little tug on his mind. John's mother had left? He didn't now that.

"John…he's-you're mistaken, you mean much more to me then either of those two. I told you, I love you, you don't need to feel…embarrassed. You definitely don't need to worry about me leaving, that is something I certainly could never do."

John gave a weak smile and shuffled a tiny bit closer.

"Really?"

Sherlock gave a warm smile and bent down to look in John's eyes at his level. They were deep blue with little brown flecks and ran deep with emotion. He clasped his hand around one of John's small hands and smiled wider as John's smile grew.

"Really John."

With that little John's face cracked into the largest grin Sherlock had ever seen and the child lunged forward crashing his lips onto the detective's. Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise and after a few seconds of shock he gently removed the child then cleared his throat.

"Maybe we wait a bit for the kissing hmm? Perhaps when you're…more my age?"

John blushed deeply but smiled and nodded.

"Sorry, we've wanted to do that for a while."

Sherlock smiled at the blushing child and leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"So have I."

**So yeah, that needed to be done. You're going to need to savor these mushy baby John and Sherlock scenes they're almost over! We're coming to the conclusion of little John and moving towards big, embarrassed, newly traumatized, hunted, genetically altered John! **


	12. Chapter 12

**The Curious case of John Watson**

**Chp 12**

**Oh shit, prepare yourself! There's going to be some harsh language and child abuse so the rating is definitely going up to 'M'.**

He didn't want to ask. No. That wasn't right. He couldn't _bear_ to ask. The past few hours had been spent searching through stacks of files, rifling through old medical records and police reports. So far all he had was a long list of domestic disturbance calls and unfortunate "accidents". John, his mother, and Harriet seemed to suffer from frequent problems with their feet as, according to the reports, the three of them regularly fell and hurt themselves. Millions of theories were presenting themselves, all of them held credibility, but Sherlock couldn't shake that feeling. When John had mentioned his mother, he was mildly intrigued, when he asked Harry, he became concerned. She had been avoidant and irritated, nothing Sherlock said had any affect, she wasn't explaining. From what he could gather their mother left that holiday and never came back, didn't even pack her things. Odd, certainly out of character. Sherlock had reviewed numerous case studies done on abused wives and from what he could tell John's mom was in no way mentally capable of leaving her husband. So the question on hand was what _did_ happen to the woman? More pressing, when did it happen?

Now it came to this, he had hit a wall, asking John was the only thing left to do. Sherlock wasn't sure what this would do to John, which was the most terrifying this of all. He didn't know how John would handle these rediscovered memories. He didn't know how he would react once he was back, he didn't know what John would think of Sherlock. He didn't doubt John's love, it was the nature of that love, Sherlock had never seen John with another man (which he found both satisfying and discomforting. It provided no evidence that he'd be open to a relationship with Sherlock, but on the other hand the detective couldn't really stomach the idea of John _with_ another man). He didn't know if these memories would conflict with John's current lifestyle. He didn't even know if John would actually wake up from his coma. _He didn't know_. He was a master at skills few knew existed, he could teach classes on subjects that were beyond obscure, but he didn't know a damn thing about how to help John.

There was no time to worry about any of that now, no time to waste doubting the next move. There was only time to do. Even so, Sherlock paused at the door for a moment to steady his nerves, he didn't do a good job of it but he wouldn't allow Mycroft the satisfaction of watching him suffer through this emotional crisis. The politician and his assistant were in the observation room looking in on where Sherlock and John had been staying. He pushed through the door despite the screaming in his head. He would never admit it, but the sight of younger John sitting at the end of the bed while his present self lie motionless, had made him want to cry. They looked so trapped, so tormented, Sherlock couldn't help but feel he had caused it some how. That he had dragged out their pain through his inaction. Little John had his eyes closed but he opened them when he heard the taller man's breath hitch.

"Hi Sherlock."

The child was loosing his liveliness, is eyes appeared drained and if Sherlock hadn't known any better he'd say John had already figured it out. But he'd witnessed younger John growing weaker in the waning hours. He gave a weak smile and made his way over to the bed.

"Hello John…I think we may have found something. Something important, but we won't know for sure unless you can tell us what happened."

John looked wearily between his older self and the lanky detective.

"Does it have to do with the war in the sand?"

"What? No-are you remembering things?"

Sherlock knew that John's feelings and a few snippets of his recent life had transferred over to his younger self, but were the memories actually returning? He hadn't anticipated any memories taking root; he didn't think the younger projection of John would be able to sustain memories past his last childhood memory. He should have considered this, should have planned on it, but he hadn't. The revelation was making the detective uneasy to say the least. Thoughts swirled around in his head forming a thick cloud of anxiety. What if remembering had nothing to do with his recovery? What if he stayed like this forever? Delete that! No! He knew remembering was key, John said so.

"Sort of. Kinda just feels like they're dreams though, not my own memories."

As John spoke he store off into the distance, as if he were speaking more to himself.

"Well, this doesn't have to do with the war…we need to remember what happened on that day, your first day on holiday…John do you remember your mother?"

John now focused his eyes on the tall man.

"Of course."

"Do you remember the day she left?"

John stilled and his eyes glazed over with panic and confusion.

"No. No, I don't remember…I can see Harriet yelling at me…but she's grown up and she's drinking…she keeps saying it's my fault but I don't know what she's talking about."

John searched Sherlock's face as if somehow he'd find an answer there.

"Did she say why it was your fault?"

Sherlock spit out the last word like it was filth. To blame John for something like that was insane. Harriet was far dumber than he'd originally thought if she believed John was the cause of their mother's disappearance. He was just a child!

"No…but she knew something I didn't, she kept saying I was crazy if I thought I could pretend I wasn't to blame…I think she didn't realize that I don't know what she does…do you think-"

"Yes John, I think it happened on the day you cannot remember. Was she there the rest of the break?"

"No…well, I don't know for sure. I don't think I left my room. I remember hurting, but I didn't care. I felt…sad, no…worse than sad, I felt like my heart was gone, and I felt guilty and ashamed. Everything hurts, even my eyes because they're so raw from…crying. No body is there, I'm alone. That's what I remember, being alone."

John drew a shaky breath and began twiddling his thumbs frantically. Sherlock leaned closer and cupped John's face in his hand.

"John…it's ok. What else do you remember? Try to remember the last time you saw your mother."

"Well she sent me off to school that morning…um, she gave me a juice box when I came home…then I was up in my room working on her present. Maybe she left before I could see her again…I-I don't remember, I can't…my head's getting foggy."

Sherlock sat next to the child now and moved his arm around John's back and placing his hand on the small shoulder farthest from him. He gave light squeeze and John looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"I know its hard John, but you have to try. Maybe you didn't see her…did you hear her? Think about the very last thing you remember, what could you see and hear?"

John looked off into the distance as he tried to recall the image.

"Well, I see my room. And I see the necklace I'm beading, I can't find the pink bead, I lost it somewhere on the floor…I hear…my mom, she's…talking with my dad, they're angry. She's walking away, I hear the floor creaking in front of my room…she's heading for the stairs to go into the living room…she's…she's screaming out and there's a loud crash…it's…quiet…."

John's eyes widened and he began to breath erratically as the memory over took him.

"John?"

Sherlock tried to take hold of the child, but it didn't seem to be helping, John trembled violently. He was completely lost to the memory.

"_Mom?"_

_John had heard the yelp, he heard the crash. Had his dad hit her? Possible, he was always angry with her for something it seemed. John shuffled closer to the door so he could figure out what was going on, it was quiet beyond belief. There was horrible sense of dread that filled the air as John scooted along on hands and knees closer to the door. In an instant his door swung open smacking the wall violently. His dad stood over him breathing heavily, glaring down at the small child. After what felt like an eternity of vicious staring the large man shot his arm down and took a handful of blond hair in his fist. John let out a cry of pain as his dad yanked him up by the scalp._

"_Ow, dad, what is it? What did I do?"_

"_You little prick, you bloody bastard, you did this!"_

_He steered John over to the stairs by his hair causing the small boy to give a whimper in pain. Once they reached the stairs his dad nearly pushed him down the steps as he forced his head to look down at the bottom. John's breath caught in his throat and he felt a horrible dropping sensation in the pit of his stomach. His mom was lying at the bottom, sprawled out and motionless. John might have thought she'd simply fallen asleep like that if it weren't for two disturbing realizations. One, her eyes were wide open and unseeing, although they appeared to be looking straight through John. And two, her neck was bent in an impossible angle._

"_M-mom? I-I…dad I didn't-"_

_His dad tightened his grip and dragged John down to the third top step and forced the small child's head to rest on the step. He shut his eyes from the intense pain of his hair being pulled and the banging of his cheek against the wood but soon opened them again to see the objects in front of him._

"_What are these?"_

_His father growled out viciously. John tried to speak, but he couldn't. His voice was gone. This was too unreal; he couldn't process the information that was being presented to him. His shoes, now spread across two steps, lie there accusingly. John had been in such a hurry to work on his present he'd left his shoes on the steps. It was a nasty habit of his that he was often being chastised for. Now he looked at the shoes with eyes as wide as dinner plates. The shoes, his shoes, had killed his mother. He was to blame for this. He began to shake with violent sobbing._

"_Mom?"_

_Harriet called out in a panic and rushed over to their mother's body. She started to cry as well and looked up at the two on the stairs._

"_What happened?"_

"_Your brother is what happened. Go get two shovels."_

_He rumbled as he pulled John's body down the steps with ferocity. John barely took notice to the jabs of pain, he barely felt them now, and he was becoming cold and numb. This was not real. It couldn't be. Harriet stayed frozen in place, staring between her father and brother._

"_What…why?"_

_His father shoved John to the floor next to the dead woman and rapidly made his way over to the young girl. In one quick motion he reached up and grabbed the girl's arm tightly. He dug his nails in her soft flesh and put his forehead to hers so he could look directly into her eyes._

"_Because I said so, now stop being such a twat and do as you're told!"_

_He pushed Harriet aside and she scrambled to make her way over to the back of the house. John's father's attentions were now back on him and he tugged viciously at the back of John's head forcing the boy to his feet._

"_Listen here boy. You did this, so you're going to help fix it. There ain't no way the yarder's will believe this story, not after your git of a mom went squealing so many times. And there is no way I'm going to jail for that bitch's death."_

_John spent the next hours feeling as though he were in some terribly realistic dream. He couldn't process everything they were doing. He was sitting in the truck with his dad, two shovels, and his mom's now very cold body. He didn't want to look at her, but it felt as though her eyes were screaming at him. Even she blamed him. When they reached their destination, some deserted part of the woods outside of town, he stared at his shoes, as if he could feel the snap of his mom's neck with each step he took. His dad dragged the woman's body unceremoniously through the dirt and mud until he reached a small clearing. The brawny man grabbed the two shovels in one hand and his shell shocked son in the other. He shoved a shovel into the boy's tiny hands and commanded him to dig. The dirt piled up and John's arms grew tired, but he didn't say a word, and he certainly didn't stop. With a disgusting thump his mother's body landed inside the make-shift grave. Once covered they left the body and made their way back to the house. Harriet was in her room sobbing uncontrollably. John wanted to go upstairs and comfort her; he toed off his shoes and walked over to the stairs only to be grabbed by one large hand._

"_Where do you think you're going, boy?"_

_If it were possible, John would have felt his stomach drop even more, but he was far beyond feeling at that point. He barely made a sound as the two stone like fists pounded into him. He was aware of every blow, of every screaming nerve ending, but for some reason it just didn't register. He could hear a bone snap, he could see all the blood, but it was as if he were a million miles away. Then everything went black, and before he knew it, there was just him, alone._

Sherlock had expected a strong reaction, but now that it was happening he didn't know how to handle it. John's younger form was practically catatonic now other than the frequent panicked looks he kept shooting at the detective and then to other various spots in the room.

"John, talk to me, what did you see?"

John continued to ignore him and a team of medical professional's Mycroft had hired rushed into the room. Sherlock finally reached out to smooth down some of the hair off of John's sweaty brow. John looked up at Sherlock with pleading eyes and tears began to come pouring out. One of the female doctors tried to take hold of the child's arm but was met with a frenzied slap to the hand. John shot up from the bed and ran at the door but was stopped by one of the male nurses.

"John, its ok they're here to help."

Sherlock tried to reassure the boy as he struggled to break free of the man's grasp. Sherlock hurried over and took hold of John himself. John broke out into violent sobs and let his body go limp in Sherlock's hold.

"I did it, it was me…I have to…I have to go get her."

Sherlock clung to the child and tried his best to sooth him. He placed a few quick kisses on John's forehead and cheeks until the salty taste of his tears covered his lips.

"Don't worry John, I can help, just try to relax and tell me what happened."

John stopped shaking and crying almost abruptly then sat himself up. Sherlock looked the child up and down trying to determine the reason for such a sudden change.

"Not yet Sherlock…I need time."

With that the boy stood and gave Sherlock's face a quick caress. He made his way over to the bed but quickly shot a look over to the detective, he gave a weak smile and then brought himself onto the bed. He lay down on top of John but his body appeared to vaporize and meld into his older form. After a moment that stretched on for hours, John shot up from the bed with a loud gasp. He shook his head and turned to lock eyes with Sherlock. The detective sat in shock, unsure of what to think or do.

"John?"

**Sorry it took so long! I got busy. On a side note though, erithwolf wrote her first Sherlock fic entitled "Heartbeat" under the angst/tragedy section. It is spectacular and filled with so many feels! Be prepared for tears though!**


	13. Chapter 13

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 13**

**OMG JOHN POV!**

John considered pretending he hadn't remembered anything, he considered it, but then promptly dismissed the idea. There was no way that Sherlock Holmes would be fooled by even the best of liars. Which John was not. Even if he was, he probably couldn't go through with it. He didn't like keeping things from Sherlock, not that he really could, but the idea of it displeased him. Especially something like this, this was big. John's two biggest secrets had been revealed before _he_ even knew them. It seemed grossly unfair that Sherlock would know everything before John, even his own personal feelings. Feelings which, he couldn't help but mention again, he had no idea existed.

He hadn't remembered that day; he hadn't remembered it for quite some time. Now that he could, he saw that after two years of almost daily beatings from his dad and the nasty looks from Harriet, his mind simply shut down. He had often wondered why Harriet hated him so much up until he returned from war, full of apologies, now it made sense. She had blamed him for their mom's death, and it wasn't until she reached middle age that she realized she had no right to blame him. John had mixed feelings on that matter, but now at least understood where Harriet was coming from. He felt responsible, he felt guilt and shame. They were distant though, in the first few hours it had been fresh, as if he'd just lived through it again (which, to be honest, he sort of had). Now it was just another memory. Not to say he wasn't suffering from some emotional fallout, but he wasn't a sobbing mess either. He had loved his mom, and he'd spent many years feeling responsible for her disappearance even though he didn't know when or why she'd left. Now he knew and it was a disturbing realization.

He knew that Sherlock didn't know the specifics, but he would want to. No doubt he would try to pry them out of John. He would want to know every detail of John's childhood trauma so that he could know if he'd solved it. He was certain Sherlock must have had theories. What concerned John, even more than having to divulge such an intimate secret, was Sherlock's other hypothesis. Nothing got by the great detective, so it was foolish to think the tall man hadn't seen right through his younger self. Sherlock obviously was aware of the doctor's feelings for him. Which was bloody infuriating since John hadn't even known. Sure, he was aware that he loved the man, he'd kill for him, he'd die for him. What unsettled him was that prior to that explosion, that love was entirely platonic, despite what others might have said. Something changed when he was working through the eyes of his younger self. He gained back his innocence, his inexperience. Through the years John had learned what it meant to be gay. It meant the kids at school turning on you, it meant your father beating you until you bleed, it meant _hate_. John wasn't one for trying to do as others saw fit, but he also wasn't thrilled about being despised. He had seen what "coming out" had done to Harriet, so he didn't even consider the possibility. That had seemed the proper decision in his eyes, even into his middle age, as he had a definite attraction for the opposite sex. But now he wasn't so sure. He didn't consider himself gay, but he couldn't deny the stirring of desire he felt for his tall flat mate. His younger self developed a crush on the detective during the month or so John was in his coma. All the while John tried his hardest to discern why it was happening. With shocking clarity he soon determined that he in fact shared the same feelings his child form was developing. They weren't so much new as they were discovered, better analyzed. Being in a coma gave John plenty of time to study his feelings and decide that he had become infatuated with the detective. It took him a while to accept it, but eventually there was no avoiding it. He may not be homosexual, but he was undoubtedly Sherlock-sexual.

Both of these new discoveries were things john wished he could simply ignore for now. But that was not a possibility as one brooding detective was sitting by his bed side for answers to the millions of questions he probably had. Most of which John really didn't have answers to give. He didn't know how to explain what happened with his mom, more because he didn't want to discuss it. It was in the past and John rarely liked conversing about his past. He really didn't know what to say about his new found feelings for his friend. Then of course there was the ability he now possessed which in all honesty he had no idea how he did it or really what it was that he was doing in the first place.

"John?"

Sherlock finally broke the silence with a soft whisper of his name. It sent shivers down his spine to hear Sherlock use such a hushed tone, to be so close he could feel the breath of it on his cheek. He rolled over to face the detective and finally opened his eyes.

"Yes Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked unsure of himself for a moment, preparing himself for some difficult task. John braced himself for the inevitable. Sherlock wouldn't want him around anymore, he was almost certain of it. He wouldn't want to be around John. He was a freak now, a freak that was in love with him. John knew better than anyone else that that was the last thing the detective would want, he wasn't one for emotional attachment.

"John…it may be hard but I'd like to know what you remembered. I think it would be best if you talked about it."

John stared at the detective for a while as he steadied his breath. This wouldn't be easy; in no way would this be easy.

"I…Sherlock, it was…nothing really. When do you think we'll be able to go back to the flat? I've been in a bloody hospital bed for some time now and-"

"Stop it."  
>Sherlock's voice was quiet but it was stern and it snapped John to attention. No subject avoidance would be aloud it seemed.<p>

"John, listen. I know this is difficult, but you must discuss this. You've been ignoring your feelings for far too long. You allowed yourself to get in this state because you refused to see your therapist. Now you will talk about this, because there is no way I will be letting you slip into some other trauma induced coma again."

John swallowed and it took all his will power to meet the detective's eyes.

"Alright Sherlock. You're right, I should have continued treatment…I just felt so much better, us working together and all-"

He blushed deeply and cut himself short. It was bad enough Sherlock knew about his feelings, he didn't want to acknowledge them, not so Sherlock could just laugh in his face.

"I, um, well suppose you're right. You've put so much work into this you deserve an answer…I remembered the day my mom…left."

Sherlock eyed him carefully but said nothing. He was waiting for more, John could tell. There was just no more John could say with out becoming too emotional. He would have to try though; there was no way out of this.

"She, um, she fell, Sherlock. She fell down the stairs is all, and she…well she died."

John forced back the tears burning in his eyes and took a quiet but shaky breath.

"There was no obituary, and no funeral service. So it's more than that."

"You-you're too right. You did your research, of course, good on you. Yes she…did not get a proper funeral. I-my dad and I-we…we buried her in the woods outside of town; he didn't want to be accused of her murder. It was an accident of course but he was a nervous man you know, foolish really, he must have been ripe with grief not thinking-"

"John. I think you know better than to lie. I am well aware of the abuse you and your family suffered. He knew he'd be a suspect with all the domestic abuse charges."

Stupid! Sherlock knew that, obviously he knew that! He had seen how his younger self handed over the belt, he knew! Saying it loud made it so much more real, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Ok, fine. You figured it all out then, well done. You are the great Sherlock Holmes after all, I should have known as much. Well then you got enough don't you? I'll just go back to sleeping then if you don't mind, wake me when it's time to go home."

John went to roll over but was stopped abruptly by one large pale hand on his shoulder. He looked back over to Sherlock who was staring at the floor.

"Don't-um-don't go to sleep…please."

That was…unexpected. John was shocked by the emotion in the man's voice. Sherlock was not man of feeling and there for it was rare to see him showing anything genuine other than boredom.

"Sherlock…I won't go back into a coma it that's what you're worried about."

"Of course that's what I'm worried about! You've been gone for over a month! I had to take care of your child projection, which by the way, was no simple task! Children are messy and needy and dangerous and-"

"Well I'm sorry to burden you, Sherlock! Maybe you should have just let Mycroft tow me away to some lab where you wouldn't have to deal with it! I'm sure you've been dying to get back into the field, find some murder. So please, don't let me hold you back!"

"John!"

"No, Sherlock, I'm sorry you had to deal with this, if it bothers you so much, then just go."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and John tried his hardest to hold back tears. He wanted this to be over as quickly as possible. His stomach was dropping and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to throw up or cry more. Sherlock was bound to get rid of him now, John was just a burden to him, and he had caused more trouble than he was worth to the detective. It was only a matter of time.

"John…I would never…I, you misunderstand me…I don't know what to do. I…John please; I'm not skilled in this area. I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to just tell me the truth Sherlock. If you don't want me around then just say so, ok, don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Why would you-of course I want you around! John…I just don't like being in the dark, I don't like not knowing what to expect. When you were…unconscious, I didn't know what to think. And your child form, well it terrified me, I don't know how to care for children, I couldn't explain why I cared so much about taking care of him in the first place!"

John let the dropping sensation subside for a moment, and in that moment, just a tiny tendril of hope seeped in.

"You…Sherlock…are you saying that you-um-_care_ about me?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking everywhere but at John.

"Well, yes, I suppose you could say that…."

John let a large goofy smile overtake his face; he really hadn't planned on this. Sherlock took one look at him and the corners of his mouth twitched just slightly before he stood abruptly.

"Well, I'll go check in with Mycroft, see when we can be heading back shall I?"

With that the detective rushed out of the room. This was no where near over, John knew. He still needed to find out who that man was that had carved up his arm, he needed to figure out what he was to do about his new feelings for Sherlock, and he needed to know what was going on with his head. For now however, he just soaked in how wonderful it was that Sherlock Holmes had said he cared, that he cared for little old ordinary John Watson. That was the main thing, and everything else would just fall into place.

**Oh man oh man, get ready, things can only stay good for so long when Moriarty is on the prowl!**


	14. Chapter 14

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 14**

**Sorry about the complications with chapter 13, I have no idea what's going on there. **

Sherlock knew John needed time to rest and recover, but there was just so much to do! He didn't like sitting around with nothing to do, not at all, especially considering the predicament. There were so many problems that Sherlock didn't know where to begin. First of course there was the matter of John's mother, what was to be done about that? John's father had passed a few years back so it weren't as though he could have Mycroft put the man away. However there was the matter of the woman's unmarked grave, John might want closure; there for they would have to spend time, money, and labor in order to find the body. Then of course there was the matter of John's abilities. Mycroft's people had put John through every test imaginable, but everything had come back normal. As far as the doctor's could tell, nothing had changed in John's brain since the explosion. Sherlock had no idea what the extent of John's powers was, or if he even still possessed them. More troubling was Moriarty's threat, he had warned he'd be watching John, so Sherlock didn't doubt he had eyes on the flat. Moriarty may be aware of John's seeming loss of ability, or he may not, but either way the danger was real. Sherlock had learned long ago not to take the man lightly, particularly when John was involved.

It was late now and he wasn't making any progress. If John were awake he'd be appalled by the number of nicotine patches he'd already gone through. It was necessary, Sherlock knew, but John never put the case before Sherlock's well being, the thought of John being so concerned for his well being brought a warm tingling sensation to his chest. He had never cared much for his body, it was merely transport after all, but now that John cared…well, that made all the difference. He had to stay focused though! There was no time to focus on his feelings now, no matter how alluring it was. Yes, longed desperately to tear through the house and grab John, to hold him close and breath in the scent of him, to touch, to feel, to have. Yes, he wanted John, and he was fairly certain John wanted him back. His child form had admitted that John wanted to kiss him. While for some time Sherlock considered what the child meant by the kiss was as comfort, since John had also mentioned wanting to help Sherlock, there was of course always the fact that John didn't express any sexual desires towards men as well. That was indeed an issue.

"Sherlock?"

A very familiar and high pitched voice called from the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock turned quickly to find John's child from standing at the foot of the steps.

"John?"

Sherlock nearly shouted he was so panicked. Why was John projecting his child form again? Was he back in a coma? So soon? Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and made his way towards the child.

"What's happening John? Is everything ok? John, tell me what's going on."

John moved closer to Sherlock and raised his hands as if to say 'calm down'. Sherlock was finding it hard to comply as one million theories flew through his mind at once.

"It's ok, I'm fine. Really Sherlock I am. I'm just asleep."

"But you…you've been asleep before, why this, why now? Are you controlling this?"

"No… well, in a manner. I have slept before, yeah, but today, today I'm dreaming. So here I am his subconscious in human form I suppose."

"So…you're not just child John? You have all his memories?"

"I do. Although some are hazier than others, and some aren't memories at all, some are just dreams and thoughts."

Sherlock tried to process this new information. So he still possessed his unique ability, but it appeared he had no control over it. This could prove useful to Sherlock if he played his cards tight.

"If I understand correctly then, John has no direct control over you?"

"That's right, while I am technically John, he doesn't hold any power over me. Not yet anyway."

"Yet?"

"He has the capability…as far as I can tell. He just needs to harness it."

Interesting…

"Well then, can you tell me why you chose to appear in this form?"

"Certainly, I didn't. I have little choice in what form I take. It all has to do with John's state of mind. I'm still John; I'm just more tuned into what's been going on in our mind is all."

"What is going on in his mind?"

"It's a bit foggy, but from what I can tell we can project our consciousness into alternate forms, forms which (if I'm right) we can choose. It'll take some work though, practice."

Sherlock mulled that over. Yes, he had suspected that they would have to train John to control this, whatever it was, if he still had it. That wasn't what confused him, what confused him was that John's subconscious knew so much, and was able to coherently convey the information.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

John took a step closer and eyed the tall detective head to toe.

"Because, deep down, John knows he needs to look into this. But he won't, not without a push."

"So, what, you're some 'deeper' part of him? It seems odd John would tell me all of this."

The child laughed and shook his head.

"You're too right."

The boy's grin turned into a devilish smirk and he rushed at Sherlock. The tall man had little time to react the boy was so fast; he was on top of him in a matter of seconds. Sherlock struggled to get free but the child possessed super-human strength and pinned down the flailing detective with ease.

"I'm not John, excellent deduction. Fooled you for a while though, didn't I?"

The sat himself with impressive force onto the detective's chest producing a loud _oomph_. He place one hand on the man's shoulder and the other at his throat. Sherlock could feel the pressure building but could do nothing to extract the boy.

"Shhh, Its better if I do the talking. Let me assure you all my information is accurate Sherlock, we just needed to give you a little nudge. That doctor up there couldn't be more confused about what's going on, honestly the man is incompetent. Well, what are you going to do; one more soldier is one more soldier. So listen close, you will help the doctor hone his skill, because it's a little known fact that these things should be done when the person is relaxed."

Sherlock wriggled underneath the small but powerful figure. This had to be Moriarty's doing, he just knew it. Was this Moriarty himself? Probably not, but definitely working for him. There was a flicker of sadistic pleasure as the 'boy' watched Sherlock gasp for breath.

"Oh, this is just beautiful! You're normally so reserved, so stoic, but now-oh-you're expressions are simply marvelous! Jim would just _love_ to see this."

The child's grip tightened and his smile widened, Sherlock's vision began to blur. Then in an instant, an identical child was pummeling into his attackers side sending them flying into the wall. Sherlock lay there in shock and disbelief for just a moment before catching his breath and looking over at the two boys. They were tackling each other and throwing punches with rapid velocity. Sherlock wasn't sure what the appropriate course of action was, he was still choking out his breaths and the children were obviously far stronger than himself. Each boy was wearing the Christmas jumper and it was becoming confusing to even watch the fight as the two of them went at each other. Sherlock wanted to help, wanted to get rid of his attacker. He tried to follow them despite their speed, watch and observe every detail he could. Learn which one was on his side. He had to hurry, the boys were tearing each other apart, the blood was starting to pour out and Sherlock worried about how much more they could take. Then he spotted it, the boy on the left, no shoes. He picked up his Rubik's cube and aimed it accordingly, hitting the shoed boy square in the forehead. It wasn't enough to cause any real damage, but it was just enough to distract him and allow the barefooted child to take the advantage. The bare foot child punched the other repeatedly generating sickening crunching noises. Sherlock winced but kept watching. In a flash the shoed boy kicked out throwing the barefoot child across the room with a thump. Just as quickly the child made for the window and jumped out. Sherlock ran to the same window and looked out, but the boy was gone.

"A-are you ok?"

Sherlock spun around and met eyes with the other child John. He was clutching his side and had a steady stream of blood dripping from his mouth. Sherlock ran over to the child and placed a tentative hand on his cheek.

"Yes, yes of course, are you?"

John nodded his head and let out a sputtering cough.

"Don't lie, that…boy, he was incredibly strong…John, you-you are…"

"Yeah, it's me. I was up stairs when I heard you talking. I thought it was you at first, just talking to yourself…I'm sorry, I should have come sooner."

He used his sleeve to wipe his mouth clean of the blood and looked down at his feet. Sherlock placed his hand under the child's chin and tipped his head so that he had no choice but to look into the detective's eyes.

"This is not your fault. Now, tell me, are you asleep? Are you dreaming? Is this the first time this has happened?"

John looked over to the stairs briefly as if he planned to escape but then returned his gaze back on Sherlock. He cleared his throat before rubbing some more blood off of his forehead.

"Yes, I am asleep Sherlock. I-yes-I am dreaming. I've been dreaming every night since I woke up. I just-um-I didn't want to alarm you is all, I just sat upstairs until I was ready to wake up. Don't make a big deal out of this ok?"

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief; would John ever just let someone help him? More importantly, would he let _Sherlock_ help him?

"John…just-never mind-go up stairs and wake up so I can clean you up ok?"

John gave a quick nod and headed up the stairs leaving a trail of blood behind him. Mrs. Hudson would likely be just as displeased to see the stains as Sherlock was, although for entirely different reasons. Tonight, it was a better omen for what the future held than Sherlock could have ever imagined. That thing referred to himself and John as soldiers. Moriarty was making an army of whatever it was that John had become, and they were strong, much stronger than any man. More importantly they could change their appearance, they could be anybody they wanted or needed to be. How was Sherlock supposed to protect John from people like _that_?

**Oh, dun dun dun! Stay tuned folks, more to come!**


	15. Chapter 15

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 15**

**Just wanted to start out with a thank you for all the lovely reviews! Sorry it took a bit to get this one up, and that there have been complications with my postings (no idea what's going on there!), if all goes well you should have the next one very soon!**

The wounds weren't so bad considering the amount of blood Sherlock had seen John loose. He wasn't an expert on how to care for abrasions such as what John had, but of course John did. So there was no real need for alarm, no _logical_ cause for panic. However, at the sight of John's bloodied and bruised body, he couldn't help but become anxious. He distracted himself by running through the facts, relaying all the information he had gathered to John, John simply listened and nodded his head appropriately.

"John, you may not want to talk about this, but we need to discuss your condition…both of your conditions."

John stiffened and rolled his shoulders not meeting Sherlock's piercing stare.

"John…you can't ignore what's happening to you. I won't allow it. They couldn't medicate you while you were in a coma, because it was against your wishes, but John you're playing a dangerous game. I've done the research; it will only get worse with out treatment-"

"Research? What'd you do, Google it? Jesus, Sherlock, I'm a doctor. Don't you think I know a thing or two about my_ condition_? I was on treatment before, and you have no idea what it's like. The Benzodiazepines are addictive, they mess with your memory, and if you use them long enough your physical and mental health will deteriorate. Then of course they want you to talk to a therapist every week, which is just bloody great if you like spilling your guts for a complete stranger! Oh! And how can I forget, there's always electroshock therapy, which, by the way, is no walk in the park, but sure, it helps reduce the symptoms."

John turned hastily in an attempt to retreat into his bedroom. Sherlock's arm darted out holding the man by his shoulder.

"John…I'm sorry, I have no idea what that must be like…what are we supposed to do then? I don't think I could-"

Sherlock wanted to say he couldn't stand to see John in a coma again, that the very thought of it tore his heart out, but his voice caught in his throat. John seemed to sense his reluctance and turned to face the taller man.

"Sherlock…I know it must have been hard dealing with me when I was projecting my child form, I know you don't want to go through that again-"

"I don't care about being around your child form John! I care about you being safe!"

There was a very loud silence and John's eyes widened with shock and realization. He took a step closer and Sherlock shuffled back pressing his back to the kitchen counter.

"Sherlock…I didn't realize…"

"What? That I cared? You're so blind! You really think-back at the hospital, you said that I liked Moriarty and Ms. Adler more than you. Do you honestly think that?"

Sherlock spit out the words viciously but his eyes were pleading.

"I-I only meant that…sometimes it just feels like I'm holding you back is all, like I'm in the way."

"Don't be an idiot; you're imperative for my process."

"I…really?"

"Of course…John, how can you think so little of yourself?"

John looked away, up the stairs again, as if planning his escape. Sherlock wasn't letting him go anywhere though, not when he so desperately craved that answer. John was his light, the one person in this world who he could stand to be around, but more than that, that he _wanted_ to be around. It was obvious to Sherlock how important the doctor was, so why couldn't John see it?

"I…Sherlock, I'm just an ordinary person, a nobody, that's all I've ever been."

He turned away from the detective and squeezed his eyes tight. Sherlock's breath caught and he wanted nothing more than to run over to the man and pull him into his arms. There would be none of that though, he knew how John was, and he wouldn't want pity. But there was no way he'd let John continue to think in this manner.

"John, you are far from ordinary, and you are far too important to let this ruin your life. Maybe you don't want medication…and I don't much like the thought of you receiving electro-shock therapy…"

More than not liking, he couldn't bear to think of it, just saying the words aloud made his hairs stand on end. The thought of John strapped to some metal slab, hooked up to millions of wires, body writhing as electricity coursed through his body…he had to delete the image immediately. _That_ was certainly not an option.

"But maybe psychotherapy? A better therapist though, not that moron from before, so you can talk about this with a professional. It can't hurt to give it a go. Keep your conversations about your new found abilities between you and I though, who knows how far Moriarty's web spreads. Speaking of which…we'll need to learn everything we can about them in order to better equip ourselves."

John looked down at the floor intensely, shaking his head occasionally as if to clear his head. Finally he raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's.

"You said he wanted me to train…should we really be playing right into his hand?"

"Good observation John, I had thought about it already of course. It may be what Moriarty wants, but we have little choice. He's going to attack, tonight won't be his last attempt, and we're going to need to know how to defend ourselves."

John nodded his head thoughtfully, as if considering every outcome.

"Alright…you're the man with a plan I suppose. For now though, I need some sleep, you may run on nicotine patches alone but the rest of us can't function at-oh what time is it-three in the morning."

He waved his hands around for emphasis in the way that always made Sherlock smile. He nodded at the smaller man in agreement, afraid that if he opened his mouth to audibly reply all that would escape his lips would be a fit of laughter. John was far too funny when he looked this cute, but the small man would kill Sherlock if he ever said so.

"Ah shite."

John swore and rubbed his right temple almost violently.

"What is it?"

Sherlock inquired moving a few steps closer. John looked displeased, was he experiencing pain? Sherlock felt a tingling of panic as he tried to deduce the cause of John's discomfort.

"The blood, my sheets, they're covered in my blood. My bed's got to be a bl-well, blimey yeah-a _bloody_ mess!"

He let out an exhausted huff and his figure slumped.

"Guess I'll be sleeping on the sofa tonight."

He said with a yawn and made his way over to the sofa. Sherlock shot daggers at the sofa before returning his stare back on John. There was no way John could sleep on the _sofa_! He was injured, badly bruised, he needed a comfortable sleep. As it was sleeping in the chair gave him a horrible crick in his neck, there was no need to add to his list of ailments. John's bloodied sheets or not, that man would be sleeping in a bed.

"No."

Sherlock drawled coldly.

"What? Oh, Sherlock! Really? I'm sorry I'm taking your favorite thinking spot but come on!"

John returned to flailing his arms around as if to grab the detective's attention.

"I won't have you hurting yourself, you're a doctor, you should know better. Take my bed for the night, likely I won't use it, I have a lot of thinking to do."

John blinked at the taller man for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief.

"Well…are you sure you won't…I'd hate to impose."

Impose? John was just being ridiculous now. The man put himself out on the daily bases for Sherlock and asked for nothing more than labels on the experiments placed in their fridge. Sherlock rolled his eyes before moving forward and taking John by the shoulders. He steered the smaller man towards his bedroom with little protest.

"Think nothing of it John, just get your rest."

The doctor nodded and cautiously stepped into the detective's room before having the door shut behind him. Sherlock walked back over to the sofa himself so he could think properly. Now that John could sleep (hopefully) soundly, it was time to configure a plan of care for the man. John may not like it, but there was no way he'd just let the man self destruct. _No way._

**As a side note, I am a child psychology major which is why my stuff tends to focus on the topics it does, and the treatments I listed are in fact accurate but not very specific. Also electroshock therapy isn't as bad as how Sherlock described it and is actually an effective method of treatment although i still wouldn't recommend it.**


	16. Chapter 16

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 16**

**Things may get a little frisky this chapter…hmm, who knows, guess you'll have to read and find out. **

Some how John had managed to swipe the box of nicotine patches while Sherlock had been preoccupied, so he now found himself dozing off on the couch. It was infuriating; he hated sleeping when he had better things to be doing. He needed to figure out how he was going to help John! However he had spent the past couple of days with no sleep doing the same, so he was at a significant disadvantage. His eye lids drooped but his mind fought against sleep. He needed to come up with a plan! _John's life was in danger,_ Sherlock repeated to himself once again to reinforce his resistance to sleep. The doctor didn't appear to be willing to concede to a regiment of pills, shots, and shocks, but he was also reluctant to speak with a therapist. John had to realize the severity of his condition; he wasn't as stupid as the rest of them, so he must have had very unpleasant reactions to the treatment to refuse it. Sherlock didn't want to see his friend uncomfortable, but he couldn't stand the thought of John in a coma again, he just _couldn't_.

Despite the detective's best efforts he found him self drifting into a fitful sleep. He tried to protest, it was only five, John would be awake in four hours and he will have accomplished nothing! His body didn't listen though, and he rapidly descended into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>John hadn't expected for his tall flat mate to offer up his own bed, it seemed highly out of character for the normally socially awkward (to the extreme) man. He had been nervous about crawling into the not so surprisingly large bed, he didn't know what to expect, or if it was morally acceptable. Part of him assumed there would be dismembered body parts underneath the blankets, they were clear however. As he shuffled underneath, his mind mulled over the second part of his reluctance while he did. His morals. Was it decent for him to be climbing into his flat mate's bed? More to the point: was it acceptable that he was infatuated with said flat mate and gaining far too much pleasure from breathing in his scent which clung to the blankets encompassing him? He wasn't sure, but he didn't really want to dwell on his thoughts, he just wanted to let the sensations wash over him; the smell of the tall man, the feel of his smooth blankets against the soldier's rough skin. He let out a faint hum in appreciation.<p>

It wasn't long before John fell asleep in the large bed. It wasn't too long after that he started dreaming. John wasn't entirely sure how this whole state of sleep played into his new abilities, or how dreaming led to the projections, but he was aware of a few things. He knew that the form of his projection was generally what form he took in his dream, hence his child form recently began taking up residence at the foot of his bed as memories of his childhood flooded his unconscious mind. He was almost certain his army clad self would make an appearance the next time he and Sherlock took up another case where John would once again be shot at. He didn't mind the shooting so much as the dreams though, and he certainly didn't hold any of it against the detective, he simply acknowledged to source of his dreams. Another aspect to note was that John had little control over his projections. They acted off his needs and desires, which is why they had been hauled up in his room up until tonight; he didn't want Sherlock to know, to think him a freak. He had a dual line of consciousness much like when he was in his coma, only this time it was more attached, and slightly more confusing. While in a coma he could send information to his projection when they were in the same room, but it was limited and required effort. It was as if they were two separate people with a very strange link. With his dream projections, it was different, they were tapped in and fully him and he could see and feel everything they did. When he woke he'd form two separate memories that just so happened to occupy the same time line, weird to say the least. He had no control over his projection when he'd been in a coma, in his sleep he had little more. He was asleep after all; it was a lot like sleep walking; only he would be consciously aware of what occurred with perfect clarity when he woke. Only after waking though, during his dream things became meshed and confusing; it was hard to tell reality from fiction. His projections therefore acted purely off instinct and based off the mood of his dreams, thankfully for Sherlock, or who knows what might have happened. His child form knew that protecting Sherlock was more important that shielding himself from the man's harsh disapproval and therefore bolted down the stairs at the realization there was an intruder.

So now he found himself dreaming and he could vaguely conceive the alternate line of vision, thoughts, and musings. He tried to command the figure to sit in the corner and not move, which seemed to be working. His dream soon became _far_ too distracting however to be bothered with whatever it was the projection was up to. He was wrapping himself in Sherlock's blankets and taking in shorter breaths. In his minds eye there was something far more entertaining occurring though. Sherlock was pinning the doctor to the bed and staring at him like a calculating predator. John could do nothing but gaze upward helplessly, at the mercy of his lanky flat mate, or so it seemed. Sherlock ran the tips of his fingers down John's chest, circling his nipples and then continuing down his stomach before coming into contact with the hem of his shirt. Sherlock slipped his hand underneath the fabric and ran his hand back up John's stomach, rubbing his skin almost rhythmically. John let out a soft moan.

"_Sherlock"_

* * *

><p>Sherlock had often found that in the recent months he would have vivid dreams of him and John being intimate. Many times he even awoke to find himself quite aroused. Nothing compared to what he was feeling now, nothing. His nerves were crying out with pleasure and he could feel himself growing hard with need. He soaked in the feel of John's calloused hands pulling him close on the sofa and forcing their bodies together providing a delicious amount of friction. He pushed forward, craving more, wanting nothing more than to press himself into John. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead as he felt himself heating up. His breaths were becoming more labored and his body was beginning to tremble, but then there was a noise. Something inside Sherlock took pause. He listened closely, past the sounds of his own breathing and the rustling of fabrics. Then it was there again, clear as a bell.<p>

"_Sherlock"_

John was moaning his name. Sherlock's mind finally snapped to attention, John was moaning his name. John was moaning his name and it sounded far too real. Suddenly he realized it was _all_ far too real. Sherlock's dreams were never this vivid because he had never experienced this before, he didn't know what it felt like, he didn't realize how beautiful and erotic it would be to hear John breathe out his name. The puzzle pieces quickly fell into place and Sherlock realized that this was no longer just some dream. Sherlock's eyes burst open and he looked straight into John's deep blue ones staring down and full of desire.

"John…what are you doing?"

Sherlock wasn't sure of what John was trying to do here, but he didn't like the idea of all his feelings on display without his consent. John clearly shared some of those same feelings, but that was no excuse. Sherlock had been sleeping; he had no control over his actions. He glared at John now, didn't he understand? John may be some sexual creature, but Sherlock was one of solitude. He didn't open up so easily, and the doctor had already peeled away more layers than anyone before. If John did this, now, without any thought and then changed his mind. Sherlock wouldn't survive. He just wouldn't, there would be no living if he couldn't be with John, if John thought things were too awkward to continue living here. He narrowed his gaze at the now, once again, moaning doctor.

"Answer me John, what's the meaning of this, you do realize I was sleeping."

John gave a devious smile and leaned closer so that Sherlock could feel the man's hot breath on his neck.

"That's ok, so am I. Only fair, you snuck into my dreams; I figured I'd slip into yours."

He flicked his tongue out licked Sherlock's hot flesh with a quick swipe then raised himself so he could observe the detective's face. Sherlock quivered with desire and internally cursed himself for being so transparent. Ignoring the burning in his groin he concentrated on what John had said. Sherlock had invaded _his_ dreams? That seemed almost too good to be true. Then there was that other bit, about being asleep…

"Y-you're sleeping…?"

Another smile.

"You catch on quick."

John once again lowered himself and began kissing, licking, and nipping the taller man's neck.

"J-john-_OH_-stop, you have to stop, you're not awake, you're going to regret this."

John didn't seem to be paying much attention and he moved his attentions to Sherlock's collar bone. Sherlock wriggled underneath the doctor's weight helplessly. He knew this had to stop, he knew this was wrong, knew that John would be upset, but he just couldn't. This was the greatest he'd ever felt, this burning desire, the electrifying touches, their bodies intertwining. Why did John even bother with poetry, the things he did with his tongue…it was elegant, how could any body doubt the heavenly feeling of John's fingers kneading into their skin, or his tongue wrapped around theirs or working it's way down their body? Sherlock couldn't think clearly, and all he felt was the growing knot in his stomach and his pants becoming unbearably tight.

"John-_ohgod_-you-stop! You have to stop _Jo-ohn_, you will regret this tomorrow, you're not thinking clearly"

John lifted his head but moved his hands to undo the buttons on Sherlock's dress shirt. He gave a calculating grin while moving to use one hand to remove buttons and the other to message the newly exposed skin.

"No Sherlock, you're wrong. This_-this_ is what I've wanted for a long time now. I was sitting in your room, watching myself dream, seeing those images…_oh god_, it took everything in me to stay in there as long as I did."

He dipped his head again, finished with the buttons and pushing the shirt fabric aside to expose Sherlock's pale torso and began circling one nipple with his tongue. The detective sucked in his breath sharply and slammed his eye lids shut, the sensation was too much. He could feel the relentless heat building and it was getting harder and harder to breath evenly.

"_John!"_

He could feel John's smile on his chest and the man ceased teasing the detective's nipples and began kissing and licking is way downward. Sherlock's back arched slightly but the shorter man held him down and continued licking. His clever tongue circled around his navel and then stopped slowly. Sherlock looked down to see John looking straight up at him and let a smile grow on his face. The tall man's eyes pleaded for release and his body trembled from the intensity. John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's but carefully lowered his lips to Sherlock's thin frame; the detective instantly felt the wet hotness right above his erection. John's tongue was mere millimeters away from the patch of pubic hair which was hiding just below the edge of Sherlock's dress slacks. John's hands slid purposefully down the tall man's sides and down his thighs only to work there way up and then back down again. The sensations were entrancing and Sherlock couldn't deny that he felt very close to what he had to assume was what people referred to as the "climax". The soldier's hands finally came to rest at Sherlock's hips and he then took his smart little mouth and began undoing the pants button and zipper. Sherlock could do nothing but look on in amazement as John then used his strong hands to tug the pants over his bulging erection. Sherlock sucked in another breath and shut his eyes, it was too erotic to look at John, look at him while he was just centimeters away from Sherlock's leaking cock.

"Sherlock, look at me."

John's voice was huskier than normal and his breath hit Sherlock's swollen penis shamelessly. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly observing John dilated pupils drilling holes straight through his skull. He smiled up at the detective and then turned his attention to the penis he now took in his hand; it was dripping with bitter precum and looked powerless in John's capable hands. Sherlock felt his balls tighten and he bit on his bottom lip in an attempt to hold back his whimpering. John flicked his gaze back onto Sherlock's face.

"My, you are close, wouldn't take much…would it…?"

He leaned in and pressed his tongue to the weeping cock and that was it. Sherlock had never experienced anything this intense in his life, he had never had a kiss and certainly never had anyone use their tongue against him in such a manner. He was completely unprepared for the title wave of sensations and emotions that washed over him, and he definitely was not ready to reach orgasm. Stars burst behind his eyes and he clutched onto the seat cushions for something to keep him grounded. The orgasm shook through his body and he couldn't help but cry out. When he finally felt himself coming down he looked over to see John wiping them up with a near by pile of tissues.

"John…I…"

He didn't know what to say, that was one of the most amazing things he had ever felt, but somehow he felt he had done it wrong. Shouldn't John have had a similar reaction?

"Don't worry Sherlock, you were fine…give me a second, I'll be right back."

He stood up and made his way over to Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock panicked, he must have done something wrong, why was John leaving him? His eyes had gone wide and John smiled sweetly at him.

"Don't worry, love, you just made a bit of noise is all, I'm waking up. Not sure what would happen if I didn't get in while my body is calling me back, not sure I want to find out."

With that the doctor ducked back into the bedroom and left Sherlock sitting on the sofa. His eyes only growing wider and a hard knot forming in his gut, _this was not good_. He could feel dread creeping over him and he hurried to pull his clothes back on. No way was John going to be ok with this. He bit back bitter tears as he pictured John storming out of the flat, never to return. Sherlock bit his lip fiercely, why was he such a cock up!

**Whoa, intense right? I have no idea where that came from honestly.**


	17. Chapter 17

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 17**

**ANGST!**

The first thing John noticed was that he had one of the most painful erections of his life. His head felt like it was swimming as memories of the night swept in. There was his wonderful dream of being in Sherlock in bed and then there was…_oh shite_. There was him, or well his "sleep walking" self, sitting in the room experiencing what was essentially two erections. Which John would have to say was one of the most maddening sensations he'd ever felt. His projection had walked into the living room though and…_oh god_, he'd done the unthinkable! He thought it was bad when his kid projection made dopey heart cookies? HA! That was nothing! This-_this_-would be the end, the end of his friendship with Sherlock, the end of his adventures through London, the end of _John_. He smacked his face with the palm of his hand, hissing a bit as he came into contact with a particularly nasty bruise. This was hell, it had to be, John died in that fight and he'd gone to hell. That was the only explanation. He would have to go out there and face this, he'd have to hear Sherlock cut into him, tear apart his soul with his cruel words and harsh rejection. He remembered Sherlock telling him he'd regret his actions and he did, god how he did. His flat mate had likely never been touched that way, he was probably incapable of giving any proper consent, he would be pissed at John for taking advantage of him like that, and he would be right to. He wanted to get up, to get this over with, the doctor wasn't one for hiding, but it seemed a bit crude to walk out in his…_condition._ His erection was still straining to break free from his bottoms and it throbbed painfully. No doubt Sherlock wouldn't want to have to see him like this after what he did, however, he'd probably be a lot more pissed if John tossed off in the detective's bed.

Before John could come anywhere close to a possible solution, he heard the door slowly creek open. He turned to see the lanky detective standing sheepishly in the doorway, looking disheveled and uncertain. He wanted to run over and hug the taller man, he wanted to apologize, he wanted to beg for forgiveness, he wanted to do anything other than just sit there. He didn't have much choice in the matter though since all the muscles in his body froze in shock. His eyes went wide with panic and he could feel himself holding in his breath. He saw a flash of something that looked like guilt in Sherlock's eyes as the detective quickly moved his gaze to the floor.

"I-"

He cleared his throat roughly as his voice started to crack slightly.

"I'm s-hmm-I'm sorry."

He looked utterly lost and confused; he obviously had no idea how to act in a situation like this. John shook his head, equally confused. It was John who should be sorry, why was Sherlock apologizing?

"Don't be…it's my fault, I need to learn how to control my projections. That _never_ should have happen."

"Never?"

Sherlock's voice sounded small, shockingly small in fact given his usual booming baritone. John raked his eyes over the man, what was going on? This wasn't like Sherlock; he should be cruel and calculating, just as he is with anyone who hurts him. Or tries to anyway, generally people never got close enough to hurt the detective. Which is what made this all so much worse. John was the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock could manage and John had betrayed that trust. So he wasn't sure why the detective wasn't simply throwing John out, but rather apologizing when he'd done nothing wrong. Sherlock rarely apologized when did do something wrong, so what was this all about?

"Sherlock…please, I know you must be furious, but I'm sorry. I truly am. You must know that hurting you is the last thing that I would want to do."

Sherlock's posture changed suddenly, his head whipping towards John and at attention. He then relaxed slightly and took a step closer.

"Hurt…John, what you did…well it certainly didn't _hurt_."

John blushed at the detective's crass tone, how had his demeanor changed so suddenly? Was this some sort of trick?

"I…Sherlock…aren't you-"

"Mad? John, you clearly lack proper deductive logic. I am in no way angered by your actions."

Well that was…unexpected. John really didn't know what to say, he didn't know what Sherlock wanted to hear.

"John…I need to know, your projections, they've led me to believe that you would like to form some romantic element to our relationship…is that true?"

The detective appeared more hesitant than before but still edged closer, mere centimeters from the bed now. John's mind raced, he didn't know what to say. His thoughts were screaming, yes, no, yes, no! Of course he wanted this! He wanted it with all his heart, but he couldn't, he couldn't have it. John knew what he was, knew how much of a freak he was now, whatever redeemable qualities he may have possessed before they were no longer of any importance. His new abilities overshadowed everything he was, who he used to be. At least he used to be normal; despite all his short comings at least he'd been ordinary. John knew he had certain useful traits that made him likable, sure, he was kind and reasonably intelligent, but he was unlovable. He had learned that a long time ago through many lessons and by many teachers, John learned that he was a creature who could not be loved. His mother had taught him through indifference, his father with beatings, Harriet by way of hateful glares, and any girlfriend, and _friend_ he had, none of them stuck around for long. John was cursed at birth to be alone, that's why he had been alright with sharing a flat with Sherlock, with becoming his friend. He knew he was far too ordinary to be his friend for long, the detective would get tired, but John was used to that. Things were different now, things changed, he had let himself fall in love with the man. That had never happened before, he never let it, but with Sherlock he really had no choice. He was in love and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do to shield himself from the inevitable end.

"John?"

John looked over, his train of thought broken. He eyed the detective wearily, he wasn't ready for this, he would never be ready for this. Sherlock looked at the doctor carefully and slowly stepped closer until his knees brushed against the bed. John bit back tears; it was cruel to have this dangled in front of him, the thought of being with Sherlock, of Sherlock _wanting_ to be with him. No matter how much Sherlock wanted him now though it couldn't last, it never did, but he wouldn't survive this time, not with Sherlock involved.

"John, please…please just talk to me."

Sherlock's voice sounded broken and pleading, the sound twisted something deep in John's gut. He looked straight into the tall man's eyes and saw the desperation in them, and panic. He licked his lips and clenched his left hand tight, this was stupid. He knew this was stupid, it was self annihilation, but he had to do it. However much it would hurt later on, no matter how searing the pain was when Sherlock finally wised up and left, he couldn't refuse this. He lived to make Sherlock smile, to hear him laugh, so he wouldn't be the one to cause him pain. If this is what he wanted, he would have it, and John would try to savor every minute of it, he would memorize every second to cling on to when Sherlock exhausted of him. He took a deep breath and steadied his gaze.

"Sherlock…I love you, you know I do. I'm not sure what you're looking for, or what you want out of our relationship, but I promise, whatever it is you're looking for…I'm more than willing to provide it."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed briefly and he crawled onto the bed, resting on his knees.

"John, I'm asking what _you_ want; I'm more than aware that what I want is…well, more of…"

His hand motioned towards the living area conjuring up strong images of Sherlock writhing beneath him on the sofa. John gave a light cough and averted his gaze momentarily feeling his cheeks heating up.

"Sherlock, more than anything I would want to be in a relationship with you, but only…only if it's what you truly want, if you think…"

_You could stand to be with me_. He thought bitterly but his voice was caught in his throat. Sherlock placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and edge closer.

"John, you…are an idiot."

John was taken back, what did he mean by that? Oh god, was this the trick? Had he tricked John to see if he felt romantically for the detective? Would it be all over now, was Sherlock going to throw him out, find some other adrenaline junkie to follow him around?

"You really think I don't care? John…I'm not sure if it's my demeanor or your own damaged psyche that has convinced you that I don't love you. But I do, I really do…with all my heart John, you're the first person I've felt this way for, and I'm not going to let you go anytime soon."

This could work, maybe Sherlock wouldn't feel this way forever, but it seemed like he meant it. Maybe, just maybe, for a little while John could be loved. He let the feeling wash over him and a goofy smile spread across his face.

"I believe you."

Sherlock smiled and leaned in closer letting their breath intermingle.

"Good…now budge over, we can sort out the rest in the morning."

Sherlock shuffled underneath the covers and John made some room. He lied down and rested his head on the silken pillow. Sherlock shifted himself onto his side and swung one lanky arm around the doctor. John felt his face heat up and another dopey smile overtake his features. Sherlock nuzzled the back of John neck inhaling deeply. The older man wasn't accustomed to this feeling, but he liked it, no, he _loved_ it. Sherlock would leave, John was a realist, he knew that, but for right now John was going to enjoy this. For once in his life, he was going to be _happy_.

**CREYS! Next chapter won't be as sad, promise; I just couldn't live with myself if it was!**


	18. Chapter 18

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 18**

**Next chapter should be up in a few hours, I already started it! WOOT!**

It had been four days and John was making remarkable progress as far as Sherlock was concerned. They had learned that, with a considerable amount of concentration, John could zone himself out and conjure up a projection. His body could not be mobile or responsive while projecting, but he was fully in control of his creations. He could project any figure he wanted, although producing alternate versions of himself (normally only varying in age) was the easiest. He essentially was transferring his consciousness into a new body. Sherlock found that John's moods could often change the efficiency of his projecting. It was far easier for him to form projections when he was in a more relaxed mood.

It was getting late and John had just finished what was probably his hundredth conjuring of himself and Sherlock could see that the man was growing tired but he had more than one million theories he wanted to test. John messaged his temples and let out a deep sigh that caught Sherlock's attention. John had a headache? Yes, he had observed John's headaches before and he was most certainly experiencing a headache. Sherlock hadn't planned for this, was he working John to hard? Did the act of projecting cause him pain? John hadn't said anything, he never says anything! John was such a reserved man, he never let anybody in, he insisted on being the helper not the helped. It was infuriating.

"Are you alright John?"

John turned his head towards the detective slowly and gave a tight smile.

"I'm fine, just a bit tired is all, not to mention I could really go for a spot of tea right about now."

Sherlock nodded fiercely and made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He wasn't sure how truthful John's statement was considering the man's lack of openness, but he didn't doubt that he would like a cuppa, he always did. The detective made quick work of preparing a steaming mug of earl grey and delivering it to the doctor. He eyed the mug nervously as John took one slow sip and sent his mind racing. He wanted to know if the tea was made to the older man's liking or if it was helping him at all. He wanted to know if he was telling the truth about tea being the only thing he needed, because he could always discretely add another pain killer into the brew. To his surprise he also found himself entranced with the thin lips that wrapped around the mug's ledge, it wasn't so long ago that those same lips had been wrapped around his own. Looking at them now he couldn't get the image out of his head, John's lips pressed against his own, their bodies pressed against each other on the sofa, the lips moving from his own and slowly making their way down-stop! Sherlock could feel that same unfamiliar tightness from the night on the sofa and hastily sat himself in his chair so to conceal his predicament. Honestly, how did people cope with this on a regular basis for so long? Sherlock had been dealing with it for all of one week and he was going mad! John looked at him curiously but continued to sip his tea.

"Feeling better?"

Sherlock asked trying to get a read on the man's well being but also hoping to distract him from the abrupt movement so as to avoid any unwanted questioning.

"Yes, thanks, tea is lovely by the way."

Sherlock smiled widely, he'd done well.

"Of course, yes…does producing the projections cause you pain John? I really must know; especially if I am to catalogue the results of the experiments properly."

Sherlock honestly couldn't care less about the results of the experiments since the sole purpose of them was merely to train John so he could protect himself, but John likely wouldn't answer truthfully otherwise. Sherlock was worried about John's well being, which he found himself forming a habit of. He needed to be sure he wasn't pushing the man too hard, especially since he wouldn't inform Sherlock if he were.

"No Sherlock, it just gets a bit tiring is all, it's no big deal."

Of course he would say that.

"John…"

"I think I'll head to bed if that's alright with you."

He stood and walked is now emptied mug to the sink. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and observed as John's left had trembled, no one other than the great detective would have noticed it was so slight. Sherlock stood himself (his problem now cleared as his mind had settled on far less entertaining thoughts) and walked over to the shorter man. John turned to give him his steady gaze but remained silent.

"I really wish you'd talk to me John, I…I am concerned for your health, both mental and physical."

_There_, Sherlock had said it, he was worried. There it was, out in the open for the world to see, he was in deed troubled by John's condition. John gave a faint smile and patted Sherlock's shoulder lightly and made his way towards the bedroom.

"Thanks mate, but honestly, I'm fine. We can talk more about the experiments in the morning ok?"

John walked into the bedroom which initially had only been used by the detective in between cases, but the men now shared. Sherlock had assured John that it was quite alright for the two of them to share a bed, since John just _couldn't_ use his anymore anymore. Not the most truthful of statements, John's bed wasn't so badly affected by the blood, but Sherlock had enjoyed sharing his bed far too much and planned to for as long as he pleased, which he concluded could very well be until the end of his days. He insisted John would have no need for one as they were now romantically involved and already shared a flat for over year together, there was need to waste money on a new mattress. So while Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat at the thought of John lying underneath his covers, that he'd be there to lie next to later on that night, he still felt himself frown as the man walked away. Why couldn't John just talk to him? Sherlock knew that he himself wasn't the most talkative of people, but that was mainly because people normally found his thoughts disturbing or rude, and when he did open up, well…people could be cruel. He'd never met someone so accepting as John, he'd met far more variations of Sally and Anderson. So he learned early on to keep his feelings to himself. John was different; it was as if he felt his feelings weren't worth discussing, like they didn't matter. Which enraged the detective because the truth was quite the opposite. John's feelings and opinions were the most important, if he could spend the rest of his life only hearing what John had to say about the workings of the world and his own personal feelings on anything and everything, Sherlock could die happy.

"I'll be there in a minute."

Sherlock replied as he sat down to jot down his observations from that days testing. John stilled and turned to look at the detective briefly before retreating into the room. This would be the first time Sherlock and him actually fell asleep together, John normally headed in far earlier than the taller man as he preferred to sit on the sofa and think until the early morning, only to crawl into bed a few hours before John waking. Sherlock felt goose bumps rise up across his skin at the thought of sliding into bed with John while they were both still fully awake. He quickened his pace and finished recording his observations. He threw the pen away in a flurry and rushed over to the bedroom door but stopped quickly running one hand threw his curls hoping that he didn't appear as eager as he truly was. The lanky detective entered the room as smoothly as possible and promptly changed into his pajamas. He snuck small glances at the doctor as he slipped into his bottoms; the man was on the bed and turned away from him. He seemed to be focused on keeping his breathing steady; Sherlock hoped that it was from his same excitement rather than anxiety. He slipped his slim form into the bed next to John and shimmied under the covers. For what felt like years he just laid there, stiff as a board, unsure of what to do. They hadn't really discussed that night on the couch since the incidence, other than a clarification in the morning that they were in fact in a relationship, and they hadn't talked about that either. They hadn't touched more than before that night, and John didn't seem to be acting as strangely as he normally did around his girlfriends. Sherlock wasn't sure what to think of it…John had seemed happy that night, and in the morning when he said he loved him, so why wasn't he doing anything? Sherlock might not have been experienced but he was well informed in common dating rituals and activities, and they hadn't done any of them. Not that he was very fond of most of them (going to the movies sounded dull and tedious in his opinion) but he was just a bit nervous as to why John hadn't suggested anything. Sherlock desperately longed to reach out and touch, but he wasn't sure he was allowed anymore.

This wasn't normal; this had to be some John thing, something to do with his own personal demons. Sherlock just didn't know how to fix it. It could have to do with the fact that Sherlock was a man, maybe he was reluctant to start a homosexual relationship, despite what he was dreaming, there was more to changing one's sexual identity than sex. Not that Sherlock had ever concerned himself with such trivial nonsense, but John might. He was in the army after all, there was a possibility that he felt his manhood would be called into question. Then again, that didn't seem like John. Sherlock wasn't left much choice, he would have to make the first move, find out what was going on. He rolled on his side and lifted his hand; he held it over John shakily trying to gather the nerves. Finally he placed his hand gently on John's shoulder, John's muscles tensed but he remained still, Sherlock therefore let his hand slowly run down the length of his arm and back up. He repeated the process several times before John turned to look at him, his eyes dark and a mix of what appeared to be desire and agony.

"John…what's wrong? We haven't talked or…touched and I'm just-I-well I would really just like to know if everything is ok."

John looked away and cleared his throat. Sherlock waited a few moments before John finally lifted his gaze to meet the detective's.

"I'm just nervous is all…I didn't want to upset you, I know you're new to this and I know how you hate…well, I know you don't like most things that I would consider normal dating customs."

The detective thought that over, John hadn't been completely unfounded in his deductions, but he had come to a completely and horrendously wrong conclusion. Sherlock did in fact dislike most dating rituals, and he had often told John what he was doing was ridiculous, what the doctor failed to realize was that this did not apply to them. Sherlock thought going to the movies sounded stupid, true, but if he went with John…If he were to sit in that darkened theater, their hands clasped tightly throughout, John squeezing even tighter at the intense parts, and Sherlock could watch the features of John's face in the dark room. John's face was so expressive, and he loved to catalogue every response the man made, and he would love to see how the film affected him. Then, if they were to walk back to the flat, still hand and hand, and he could step closely, letting their shoulders brush together as they went along. Finally, if John would cradle the nape of his neck and pull him forward for a deep, slow, and utterly fantastic kiss…Sherlock could grow to like the movies. He had followed John when he'd had such an outing with some freckled girl, it had left Sherlock feeling bitter and jealous, but also full of ideas. So when John said that Sherlock didn't like normal dating customs, he was right, he just didn't understand that the detective made an exception for themselves.

"I like _you_ John."

He stated simply, it was far easier than explaining the complexity and irrationality of his feelings for the doctor. John blushed lightly and cleared his throat again.

"Well…yes I…I like you too, obviously, um…"

John seemed to be having a difficult time articulating as usual so Sherlock decided to be brave (and merciful really) and move forward to press his lips against the doctor's. It sent a bolt of electricity down his spine and caused his hair to stand on end. John sucked in a breath through is nostrils and his eyes widened in surprise. Sherlock leaned in closer and moved his arms to pull John's body against his. John obliged and slowly began to calm down enough to reciprocate the detective's attentions. They moved their mouths in rhythm and Sherlock hummed quietly at the sensations. Their bodies were rubbing against each other and it felt amazing. He parted his lips slowly and cautiously moved his tongue to brush along John's bottom lip. John whimpered but opened his mouth willingly. Sherlock probed his tongue into John and moaned as he soaked in all the new sensations. John moved his tongue as well, using the same techniques he'd done that night on the sofa. Their hands sought each other out, trying to get them even closer somehow, trying to map out every part of each other. John whirled his tongue inside the detective's mouth producing low moans from the tall man. After ten minutes of Sherlock's second snogging John pulled away. They were both breathing heavily and their lips were slightly reddened. John's pupils were definitely blown, but his eye lids drooped.

"That was…wow…you sure you haven't done this before?"

"Positive."

John leaned in and placed another deep but short kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"you're great, but-"

John yawned and nuzzled into Sherlock's neck.

"But I'm exhausted."

It didn't take very long for John to doze off; moments in fact, he must have been tired. Sherlock couldn't deny that he was disappointed, he found himself over stimulated and with no means of release. However, he was well aware that John's soft snoring against his neck, and his left hand lightly clutching to his tee-shirt, was one of the greatest things Sherlock had ever experienced. The detective let a slow and warm smile spread over his face as he dipped his head and rested his cheek on the top of John's head. This would do for now. John scooted even closer burying his head deeper into Sherlock's neck and let out a soft sigh.

"_Sherlock." _

The detective tightened his grip on the doctor and his smile grew even bigger. Yes, this would _definitely_ do for now.


	19. Chapter 19

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 19**

When Sherlock had woken up John was still fast asleep and curled up. He was still wrapped in the detective's arms but had shifted in his sleep and now rested his head on the detective's chest. Sherlock's cheek was pressed into the crown of the doctor's head and he smiled as he took in a deep inhale filling his lungs with pure John. He let the scent rule over his mind before becoming aware of the fact there was another person in the room. He tightened his grip on John and pulled him closer, not sure of what to expect from the intruder. He listened closely, sounded like…scribbling? They were writing, possibly observing them, could be working for Moriarty. He quickly turned his head so that he could see the entirety of the room. He braced himself for some unknown assailant but instead realized that it was not an agent of his nemesis, but one of John's projections. Young John was sitting in the corner of the room and seemed to be doodling on a piece of paper.

"John?"

Little John's head shot up immediately and graced the detective with a broad smile.

"Oh, you're awake! Do you think you could wake me up? I know it's early but it doesn't seem to work when I do it and I'd really rather we woken up now."

He stood and walked closer to the bed. Sherlock rolled to face the child but looked back at John's sleeping body curiously.

"Why? I know how fond you are of sleep; you scold me for waking you with my violin constantly."

John's projection smiled and giggled lightly.

"Yeah, I guess I do don't I…could you do that now? Play the violin that is. It's a very pleasant way to wake up."

He gave another smile and took a step towards the door as though he were ready to dash out and grab the instrument that instance. Sherlock eyed the child and then the doctor.

"Can't you wake yourself up? Didn't you do so the night we were attacked?"

The smile faded from the child's face and he looked to the ground.

"I was already waking up because of the noise that night…but…I tried, but…I don't know, I'm not really another person you know? I don't think I sound like anything other than a voice in his head. I can see and hear what he does and he's not getting any of this."

"No? Well that's interesting, do you feel disoriented at all?"

"Not really, it's just like a mental movie, background noise…you think you could wake me up now?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and looked from the boy's weak smile to the doctor's furrowed brow.

"Is everything ok?"

John's younger form shuffled uncomfortably and looked everywhere but at the detective. After a few moments of silence Sherlock cleared his throat catching the child's attention again.

"I…just rather we woke up is all. We can get up and…um…solve a case or something, we can have lots of fun, swear!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and sat up fully in the bed.

"John, I'm well aware of your inability to express yourself as an adult, I found it refreshing that in your child form you were quite expressive, so please, tell me what is upsetting you. Your dream, obviously, but I require details, it's important to me to know your mental state."

Younger John looked wide eyed at the detective as if he were a deer caught in the headlights.

"Sherlock…_please_, just wake us up."

His heart ached to give into the boy's plea, but he knew this was in John's best interest. It was time for John to start opening up to someone, the longer they waited the harder it would get.

"I will…just tell me what you're seeing. We need to discuss this."

John looked back at his body anxiously as it began to squirm beneath the blankets. Sherlock placed one hand over the doctor's and the looked back at the child. The younger John drew a shaky breath and clenched his hands.

"Ok! I can see it, I keep seeing it! My mom, I keep watching her die, and her underground, and my dad-he-he's hitting me, right now, I can see it. The next part is bad though, so please…_wake me up_!"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned to the older John whose head was now turning back and forth with beads of sweat pouring down his furrowed brow. The detective shook the doctor but the child stayed frozen in place, eyes glazed over as he was mesmerized by the images in his mind.

"John! John, wake up! You're dreaming John, wake up, it isn't real!"

Finally the child jumped onto the bed and into John, the older man bolted up right, his eyes wide open but staring at some unseen peril. He breathed heavily and was sweating all over; his hands trembled violently as he clung to the covers. Sherlock reached back over and placed a hesitant hand on the man's shoulder. John's head whipped around so that his fear filled eyes met Sherlock's frantically.

"John…are you…ok?"

He knew it was an idiotic question, but he needed to know what John was thinking. He needed to know how to help. John shook his head indicating that no, no he was not. The doctor jerked forward and embraced the detective roughly. Sherlock quickly moved his arms around the smaller man and griped tight. John's body was shaking and he let out a few whimpering sobs as Sherlock tried his best to console him. He was patting down the smaller man's hair and whispering comforting words. John's shaking lessened after a few minutes and he slowly pulled away from the taller man.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Stop. Don't be sorry, don't ever be sorry. I'm here for you John."

"I know…"

"What happens at the end John? In your dream, John, what happens after your father…"

"Beats me senseless? It's…well it's not really…"

"Please, tell me, _please_."

"I…I'm sitting in my bed and…my mom comes and…oh Christ, it's stupid, she comes and she blames me alright? She tells me it's my fault and she…well let's just say she puts me in my place."

John looked away and squeezed his eyes tight to hold back tears.

"John, I'm sorry you had to experience that…I really am. I just don't know how to help you."

"Sherlock, don't worry about it, I'm fine really. I'll just get a cuppa and-"

"Stop John. Please…"

Sherlock cupped the smaller man's face with his hands and tilted his head forward so their foreheads rested on each other.

"John…please, for me…can you please get some help?"

John looked into the detective's eyes and trembled slightly.

"I…ok. Yeah, for you. I'll get some help Sherlock, for you…I'll do it."


	20. Chapter 20

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 20**

**Holy mother of god, it's chapter 20 and there's still like…um…at least 5 chapters. Maybe more if I need to add more smut…which I might…yes, yes that might be very important…**

There was nothing more annoying than a visit from Mycroft as far as Sherlock was concerned. The politician was perched on John's chair sipping his tea rather smugly. Sherlock wanted the man to just be done with it and go, but Mycroft was one for dramatics and wouldn't be rushed. If John were there he would soothe the detective, keep peace between the two brothers, unfortunately he was not there. However that was exactly why Mycroft had chose that time to visit, what he had to say was for the detective's ears only.

"Got a new therapist did he? Good, that last one left something to be desired."

Mycroft drawled inspecting his hand.

"Do get on with it Mycroft, I'd much rather be keeping an eye on the good doctor than discussing his private affairs with _you_."

"Don't worry about that dear brother; I have people watching him of course. They've been watching the both of you since you left my facility, you wouldn't think I'd leave the both of you unguarded after Moriarty's threat?"

"Well, fine job they did, one of his men broke in just a few days ago! Gave John a right good beating, where were your men then, hmm?"

Sherlock took pleasure in the shocked expression that adorned Mycroft's face and had to stifle a laugh at the thought of him phoning all of his agents for explanations later.

"Security can always be _tightened_…did you learn anything from this assailant? Anything about John's new abilities or Moriarty's plans?"

"Yes, not much more than I hadn't already deduced though. Moriarty is most definitely planning to use John, the man had the same abilities, Moriarty is making an army of them. Other than that, most of what I've learned about these abilities have been from John and I's research."

Mycroft hummed in contemplation and took another sip of his tea.

"So there are more like him then? Interesting. Do we know how that is possible yet?"

"That posed as a bit of a conundrum but I'm fairly certain I've worked it out. The laboratory that John and I infiltrated was obviously in his possession, when the explosion went off John was dosed with a chemical which would alter the mind in such a way that making these projections would be feasible."

"So we're to assume then that he observed you and John afterwards to determine that it did in fact work, as you two did rescue his intended guinea pigs. Then proceeded to either conduct further testing or straight to recruiting, either way I'm sure he's well on his way to building a significant following."

"Yes…have you any news on his where abouts?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat and rested his mug of tea down on the coffee table.

"He is elusive to say the least, his men dispatched of three of my agents just the other day. I regret to say that very little progress has been made, however we have observed a significant decline in crime the past two weeks."

Sherlock let that sink in; it was quiet, too quiet. He should have known! Whatever Moriarty was planning, it was big. He was focusing all his attentions on his latest project, which could mean nothing good.

**Have no fear; next chapter should be up in a few hours! Sorry this one was so short, next one might be too…maybe not, we'll see, still working it out!**


	21. Chapter 21

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 21**

John enjoyed walking through London, especially when it was so nice out. The fresh air was just the thing to help clear his mind, help him think. Which is exactly what the doctor needed to do right now. He wasn't sure he understood everything that was going on, not just these new freaky powers though. No, those could be examined; those could be studied and managed. He was more confused about all the emotions that were coming to light. John was a soldier through and through; he was accustomed to ignoring feelings that got in the way of getting done what needed to be done. Now this therapist wants to open him up and let everything he'd been piling away spill out. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that, or if he'd ever be ready for that. There was a lot that he'd worked hard to forget over the years, things that he never planned on talking about. There were his multiple beatings delivered by dear old dad, the torment of a resentful older sister, and of course the war. His mind was filled with blood, his and that of his fallen soldiers. It was terrifying to realize that all of his personal demons were not only going to be brought into the open, but they were going to be studied and analyzed. The army had sent him to a therapist when he got back from the war, but she was easily shut out and diverted to less sensitive subjects.

Sherlock had told John he wanted him to get treatment, he had wanted him to take the medications. As a doctor he would urge his patients to go through standard treatment, to do as advised. As a patient, he most certainly would not. The drugs did things to his body that he found worse than suffering through the disease. He wanted to make Sherlock happy, but there were certain things he could not do. He would do the therapy; he would try to talk about what had happened and how it made him feel. He would try for Sherlock. He had always felt worthless, his therapist said that was to be expected with abuse victims, but John didn't really care. He didn't care what it was that most victims felt, he knew how he felt, how he had always felt. There was nothing in this world that could lift the feeling of self loathing from his shoulders. He had tried to find purpose in the army, but being surrounded by death didn't bode well for an already damaged psyche. He had never regretted joining the army, he was proud to have served his country, but it was evident that it hadn't done much for his self worth. Working with Sherlock had helped him feel purpose, that maybe his life had meaning. It wasn't the saving of lives either; he'd done that in the army. He wasn't that full of self hate, he'd seen that he'd done well, that he'd saved more than a few wounded soldiers from a bloody death. With Sherlock it was different, because he'd seen how the detective had acted around people and how he treated himself. He'd seen how he'd helped the tall man become at least slightly more bearable, how he'd helped him take an interest in his personal well being, but most of all he'd given him a friend. So if Sherlock needed John to take care of this, he would. Because keeping Sherlock happy meant finally giving John something worth living for.

The doctor approached Baker Street with a sense of new found pride. He hadn't been sure he'd actually be able to go through with being honest to the therapist, but focusing on Sherlock had made it possible. Some how it made him feel much less helpless to think of it as something he was doing for the detective rather than just out of some personal need. He took the steps two at a time and when he reached the door he nearly pummeled Mycroft in the process.

"Mycroft, sorry I didn't-"

"See me? Obviously. No apologies necessary doctor, good day."

With that the politician gracefully made his way down the stairs and out the door, all the while twirling his umbrella. John shook his head and entered the flat hesitantly, it was common place for Sherlock to be in a right foul mood after a visit from the elder Holmes. As he walked in though Sherlock's head turned from where he'd been staring out the window to appraise the doctor it seemed. His features softened almost unnoticeably and the corners of his lips twitched just slightly.

"Mycroft stopped by for a chat then?"

Sherlock frowned momentarily and took two steps towards the doctor.

"John…when greeting one's "significant other" after some time apart is it normal to feel the need to…kiss them?"

John's jaw dropped but he quickly clamped it shut and cleared his throat roughly. Sherlock could be extremely blunt sometimes; of course he rarely even noticed when he'd committed a social faux pas. He hadn't said anything insensitive or unbelievably rude this time, but it had certainly caught the older man off guard.

"I-well-yes, I suppose it is normal to want to-um-want to kiss someone whom you love, especially if they've been away."

Sherlock nodded and appeared to think John's statement over for a moment before taking another step towards him.

"May I kiss you then?"

John felt his cheeks blush at the nonchalant tone in his voice, as if he were asking him to pass the salt.

"Well…yeah, sure…"

The detective narrowed his eyes for a second before taking another large step.

"Are you sure? You seem hesitant, it was my understanding that you wanted to be in a relationship with me. You seemed to enjoy kissing the other night. Is that it then? Are we only to kiss at night? Perhaps you aren't as comfortable with this as-"

"Stop."

The detective was beginning to look frantic, borderline hysterical, John had to calm him. Sherlock eyes were locked on his and full of doubt.

"Of course I like kissing you, and no I'm not uncomfortable with this. Sherlock, it's just an odd question is all it took me off guard."

He took a step closer to the taller man this time leaving them only centimeters apart.

"Good."

Sherlock breathed out full of relief. The tall man brought his hands to the doctor's neck and tilted his head back so that he could take full advantage of the man's thin lips. The detective kissed passionately, moving his lips at fantastic speeds, nipping John every so often in the process. John moved his arms around Sherlock to pull him closer but to also gain some leverage for himself. The younger man soon deepened the kiss and the two of them stood there probing each other's mouths. The taste and feel of it was more than blissful and it made John feel weak in the knees. Soon Sherlock was pulling away but still keeping his face close so he could look deeply into the older man's eyes.

"Bedroom?"

**Oh Snap! CLIFF HANGER!**


	22. Chapter 22

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 22**

**Porn, porn, porn. Porn. Lots of it. But there is some fluffy stuff too, and some more insight into John's sad mental state. Oh, and some scary foreshadowing!**

There were no words to describe just how perfect that moment had been, not one single word. That was a first for the detective, as John would tell you he could "out live god trying to get the last word", so this was certainly a first. Because there had been times when he couldn't speak, yes there had been times when the taller man was unable to voice his thoughts. Most times it was because he had to conceal his location from unsuspecting criminals, or because he'd had the breath knocked out of him from a particularly grueling run in pursuit of some suspect, and then there had been John. He'd never admit it to the older man but John had made him go silent plenty of times. With one disapproving look the man could make Sherlock bite his tongue, refrain from verbally tearing some idiot to shreds. On more than one occasion Sherlock had been forced into silence by the doctor. There had been number of times he'd caught a glimpse of the man's stomach when he lifted his arms and had wanted to tell him to take his jumper off because it looked stupid anyway and the room would be greatly improved by his shirtless figure. Once while on a case they had been forced to hide in a man's closet so as to not blow their cover, it was small and John had stood in front of him listening intently to the suspect's location, John's arse had been pressed into his crotch and it was painfully arousing, he had wanted desperately to tell John to add pressure and perhaps shift his hips again because it had felt _nice_. However, Sherlock had decided against speaking then too. This-_this_-was different. Sherlock wasn't holding back, wasn't forcing himself into silence, he was simply at a loss. For once in his life he had absolutely no words to express how he felt or what he wanted. Because John was splayed out in their bed, and he finally was free from that ridiculous jumper, and he looked beautiful.

John was looking up at him with a needy and nervous stare, he seemed unsure of what to do next. Sherlock wasn't sure he knew much better, although it was likely that he had done far more research on homosexual intercourse than John. Mostly because it was necessary for a particularly odd case taking place inside of a gay night club, but there had also been a few additional inquires when his feelings for John were first coming to light. He had looked into the different methods and he'd done a fairly good job of creating an accurate image in his mind of how he and John would look in the various positions. Sherlock had spent a great deal of his sleepless nights picturing John and him going through the steps, bringing each other to spectacular orgasm. He'd been hoping, dreaming, wishing, and preying for what was now presented before him. He slowly crawled over John, moving his way up the bed until he was just centimeters above his face. John let out a shaky and anticipating breath which blew across Sherlock's cheeks and filled his nostrils with John's sent. Slowly and hesitantly the detective lowered his head so that their lips could come together with measured and deliberate movement. He applied more pressure and was rewarded with a quiet moan from the now trembling doctor. Their hands trailed across the other's body, mapping out the foreign territory. The detective deepened the kiss and gently snaked his tongue through John's slightly parted lips. The shorter man moved his tongue as well with clever movements that made Sherlock whimper. He lowered his hips and let their throbbing erections brush against each other creating sickeningly sweet friction that forced the doctor to take in a harsh gasp of breath. John lowered his hands to Sherlock's arse and began to slowly knead the soft flesh with uncertainty. For someone the detective had deduced was involved in a number of intimate relationships the man was surprisingly cautious. It was as if he expected the taller man to pull away at any moment; that his touch would be unwelcome. Based off how slowly he preceded, the gentleness in his kisses, and the lack of eye contact that had to be the correct conclusion. However the detective couldn't discern whether the self doubt was based on Sherlock's own demeanor or something entirely John. The doctor did suffer from a fragile ego because of his years of abuse; it was possible that he didn't believe that Sherlock would want this with him. An idiotic and completely unfounded thesis, John would need to be shown otherwise.

"I love you."

Sherlock cooed into the doctor's ear and placing several kisses along his jaw line.

"I love you too."

Sherlock's heart dropped at the quiet emission. The older man meant it, he knew him well enough to know that love was something he wouldn't lie about. What troubled Sherlock was the amount of sorrow that was hidden behind those words. He could hear the man struggling to keep his voice even, he didn't believe the detective, but he wanted to. Sherlock felt his heart tearing in two; John didn't think he could be loved. It's true that the detective had felt similarly, but he was a special case after all. John had taught him he wasn't a sociopath, he did in fact feel, but that didn't mean that he did so in a normal fashion. He didn't need social interaction like most, and he had never been fond of the clingy dependence that being in a relationship seemed to create. He had the love (no matter how distant) of his mother and father, and that of his brother, and he had friends. He had Lestrade and a few various informants that he was friendly with. It's true that he had felt he was a creature that could not be loved in any traditional sense for many years, but it hadn't troubled him nearly as much as it should have. That was because he had never felt what he did now; he didn't know what he'd been missing. If he was completely honest with himself he knew that he probably never would have if John hadn't run into Mike Stamford that fateful day. It was simply unimaginable how John must have felt though. To know how to love, to desire someone's touch and affection, but believe that he was unworthy and unable to receive it. How many people had used John to gain his love and attentions, only to abandon him when they'd had their fill? If he could he would hunt every last one of them down and teach them a painful lesson. Right now though he knew what needed to be done. He wouldn't let another day pass where John could go on thinking that he was unlovable.

Sherlock kissed John's lips gently and full of feeling. John returned the action with tentative pressure. The detective lowered and rotated his hips so their two erections slide against each other in a rhythmic manner. John gave a faint whimper and held tighter to the taller man's arse unable to suppress his hips from bucking upward into the movement. Sherlock increased the speed just barely and gave one last passionate kiss before lifting his head to look directly into John's eyes.

"I mean it John, I love you, and you're the only person on this earth that could possibly elicit such a response from me. You are perfect for me in every way, even when you're nagging me. You are my soul mate, and I know that sounds overly sentimental, but it's true. Because you don't just make me a better person John, you make me _want _to be a better person."

With that the detective leaned forward and kissed the doctor again, gently moving his lips against the older man's and brushing their tongues together lightly. He moved closer and he felt moistness on his cheek. He pulled away to see that John was in fact crying.

"John, what's wrong?"

He was afraid that he'd done something wrong; perhaps what he said hadn't helped? But John gave one of his great big John smiles that took over his whole face, and his eyes filled up with not only tears but with love and joy.

"Nothing, I…I just…I believe you."

He moved one hand from Sherlock's arse and placed it behind the taller man's head, with a gentle pull he brought their lips back together and kissed the detective with far more resolve than before. The doctor continued kissing him for a long time, until the constant friction of their erections pressed together soon became too much. Sherlock rolled his hips against the older man's and the two of them moaned loudly into the other's mouth. John's hips bucked forward again and Sherlock gasped at the rough contact. Sherlock reached over to his bedside table drawer and pulled out a small bottle of lubricant that had been bought the day after the incident on the couch. He squeezed some of the liquid into his hand and threw the bottle somewhere across the room, it could be retrieved later, right now he was busy. He brought his slick hand down to the two men's aching cocks and began to rub them up and down with purpose. John moaned loudly and surged into the touch. Sherlock tried to keep his hand steady but could feel the building tension. He was determined to make this last though. He applied more force receiving a whimpering response from John and feeling his own breath hitch.

"Oh! Sherlock, _more_!"

John whimpered and lunged forward to place sloppy kisses along the detective's long neck. Sherlock moved his hand from their cocks and placed it over John's puckered entrance. He looked into John's eyes silently begging for permission, John seemed to be debating for a second before nodding vigorously and taking advantage of Sherlock's parted lips. The taller man moved his slender fingers into John and felt him tighten around the two digits. John groaned and jerked his hips at the intrusion, causing their cocks to collide. Sherlock twisted the two fingers around, scissoring them inside the doctor, reveling in the sounds the actions produced from John. He could feel the hole becoming looser from the attentions and slowly removed his hand. The shorter man trembled beneath him, full of desire and anticipation. Sherlock lowered his cock so it lined up perfectly with John's entrance and with one final approving nod from the doctor he pushed forward. Instantly he felt the hot tightness wrap around his engorged cock and caress it in a painfully pleasurable way.

"_Oh god, John, you're so tight. Jesus…this is fantastic_."

John could do nothing more than moan loudly in response involuntarily pushing himself further down Sherlock's cock. The sensation was so intense that Sherlock had to stay still for a few moments before beginning a slow rhythmic push. John's hand grasped onto the bed sheets fiercely and continued to moan and whimper as Sherlock pressed into him.

"Mmmm, Sherlock, oh god, you're so _deep._"

John moved his hips in time with Sherlock's creating more friction and causing the detective to cry out. The two of them writhed against each other, Sherlock thrusting deeper into John and the doctor's weeping cock slamming into the taller man's stomach. They thrust into each other with growing desperation, their cries growing louder and louder as they drew closer to climax. Sherlock could feel himself unraveling and his thrusts became more sporadic.

"John-_oh,uh-_I'm going to…I'm almost…"

Sherlock couldn't form words anymore, his head was cloudy with lust and his tongue was thick and lethargic.

"Me too, just-_ohmygod_-just keep _going_."

Their breathing was labored and their hearts beat frantically as they came closer and closer to their climax. John was moaning loudly and pulling at the sheets viciously. With one last shuttering push Sherlock felt his cock twitch and his balls tighten until finally he came with a thunderous howl. White hot bliss pumped through his body as he rode his orgasm out with erratic thrusts. John continued to whimper and Sherlock could see the doctor had yet to come himself but was dangerously close. Thinking back to the beloved night on the sofa, he let his mouth trail down the older man's torso until he came into contact with the moist and desperate cock. He ran his tongue along the underside lapping at the glands. John thrashed his head violently in the pillows, the sensation becoming too much. Sherlock watched as the shorter man's balls drew with in themselves and his cock reddened even more. The detective grabbed at the base of the shaft with one hand and sealed his lips around the head, swirling his tongue around it harshly. With an ear shattering cry John came in Sherlock's mouth. The taller man only took John further into his mouth, working his tongue around the cock through the orgasm. He swallowed loudly producing a shudder from John and made his way back up the bed so he could rest his head on the pillows. John turned and rest his head on the detective's chest as the two of them steadied their breathing and elevated heart rates. After a few moments Sherlock turned his head and placed a few light kisses on the top of the doctor's head receiving a low hum in response.

"Don't ever doubt it again John."

"What's that?"

"That you are loved."

John was silent for a moment but moved his arms to wrap around the detective; Sherlock in turn wrapped his arms around the doctor protectively.

"Same goes for you."

Sherlock smiled and placed a few more kisses to the crown of the shorter man's head. There was no more need for words as far as he was concerned. All he wanted now was to lie in bed with John for eternity. If he had had his way that's how the story would have ended, with the two of them wrapped in a loving embrace. However Sherlock was not the only one seeking John's favor and he would soon find that happily ever after did not come so easily to those who had enemies like the illustrious James Moriarty.


	23. Chapter 23

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 23**

Sherlock didn't like not knowing, he loathed to be unable to piece together the puzzle. So it stood to reason that when he did come upon a difficult puzzle he would first find him self enthralled, but if he soon found himself stuck he would become mad, crazed even. He also hated anything that could be potentially harmful to John. This puzzle of Moriarty's was proving to be both irritatingly complex and dangerous. Every lead he obtained just led him to another dead end; the mastermind was going through a lot of trouble to keep Sherlock in the dark. His homeless network provided little help, no one of importance was talking, the consulting criminal had seen to that.

Sherlock was left grasping at straws, chasing shadows. He had so many questions and seemingly no means of acquiring any answers. He had spent the other day shouting to no one in particular while John desperately tried to read the paper. The doctor didn't interfere; he was smart enough to know that the detective needed to vent some of his frustration. Even if yelling at the walls, demanding for answers, wasn't going to move the investigation along, it would help calm Sherlock's mind at least slightly. So he had yelled and hollered until his throat was hoarse. _Where is he hiding? Why does he need "projectors"? What is the end game? Why is it so important? Why can't I find anything?_ John gave his usual sympathetic glance before coming over and running his hands through the detective's hair. The gesture was appreciated but offered little comfort; it did nothing to change their predicament.

_Buzz buzz. _

Sherlock heard his phone vibrating next to him, for a moment he thought it might be John, but one quick glance proved otherwise. Mycroft was texting him, god that man was nosey. If it were important than he'd call, but no. He insisted on bothering Sherlock whenever he had a spare moment. The detective picked up the phone and threw it angrily across the room. The last thing he needed right now was that lazy politician wasting his time with trivial nonsense. A lazy politician who has provided little help in finding any useful information he might add. Sure he had his goon squad around to keep an eye on things, which provided some comfort and allowed him some piece of mind for John's bi-weekly visits to his therapist. However he knew that they wouldn't stand a chance against anything Moriarty put together. If he wanted to attack, he would and could do it whenever he wanted, goon squad or no goon squad.

_Buzz buzz. _

Idiot. If he was going to make any progress Mycroft was going to have to cut it out. He raised his hands underneath his chin in a prayer like fashion. He needed to think this through, he needed to concentrate. Whatever Moriarty was planning it was big, and when it was time to strike he would, and there wouldn't be any warning. No, whatever this was the consulting criminal wouldn't risk it by playing any games, not this time. But there had to be some clue, something that could unravel the whole thing.

_Buzz buzz. _

Buggery.

* * *

><p>John hadn't gotten a lot of time out of the flat; Sherlock was pretty strict about them staying in and he really hadn't much need since he'd left the surgery. He wasn't complaining, he liked that Sherlock demanded he be close by, it made him feel wanted, even if it really was just about avoiding Moriarty. Every once in a while though a man needs to get some air, he needs a bit of time to himself, even if it's just for a quick walk. He enjoyed going on walks, he really did, and it had been what made getting his limp so unbearable. Walking through the park was a much less manageable task with a limp, psychosomatic or not.<p>

This was his time to think and gather his thoughts, piece together everything the therapist had discussed, and he liked that. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted the detective there though, looming over his shoulder, trying to deduce what he was thinking. It wasn't as if he couldn't be apart from the man, he just wanted to share in the experience of something that he thoroughly enjoyed. The truth was he really just wanted to share. It was the oddest thing, he'd spent so much of his life bottling everything up and now he was just ready open up. He wanted the detective to know everything, everything he loves, hates, everything that makes him John. He wanted to share because it finally felt like somebody would be listening, honest to god listening. Not just some half hearted attempt to not seem rude, because Sherlock Holmes doesn't care about that stuff, if he listened it would only because he wanted to. The detective would analyze and question and he would remember and he would _care._

Oh yes, that thought was heady indeed. To have those piercing eyes settle on his own and soften, to become full of love. It made the doctor want to weep; it made him want to get home faster. He had never had anything like this before and it was both exhilarating and terrifying. John really did want to share every part of himself now, for the first time in his life, but he was scared. There was no telling how the man might react, how he might feel about the things that went through the doctor's head. As much as he wanted this there were more than thirty years telling him this was too good to be true. That night, when Sherlock and he had lain in bed, and he had told John that he loved him, it had been perfect. To hear those words, to hear them spoken from the person he loves more than he'd loved anyone before, but to hear them and to know that they were true. Sherlock had made a point of proving he meant it, and it had made all the difference. Most people went through life saying what was considered appropriate and polite, so yes, John had heard the words before. They were empty and lacked feeling though, and no one had cared to stay around long. Sherlock never said anything he didn't mean though, not unless he was acting for some case, even then John liked to think he wouldn't fall for the same trick.

John was so deep in thought that he almost didn't notice that he was being followed, almost. He tried to refrain from tensing his muscles or showing any signs that he was aware of the man now tailing him. He didn't want to appear panicked in anyway, but he had to get help some how. There was no doubt in his mind that the man had to belong to Moriarty. He was far too close for John's liking and there had to be more operatives near by. This was the first time to his knowledge that they'd tried something like this which was troubling. He was still a good distance from the flat and there was no way he could be sure that there wasn't someone waiting at a point farther ahead who could grab him if he made a run for it. His best bet was to try and alert Sherlock without raising any suspicion. Carefully he reached his hand into his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone. If he was lucky he could get a message out quickly, Sherlock could get in contact with the men Mycroft had watching them. It was odd that they wouldn't notice someone who was obviously tailing the doctor and John tried not to think the worst. He quickly typed out a message to Sherlock and pocketed the phone. He needed to stall, to avoid being taken if that was the goal here. There was a coffee shop just one block up; if he could make it there he could duck inside to avoid capture. It was unlikely they would drag him out of such a public place without planning ahead of time.

Unfortunately for the good doctor, Moriarty had other plans. As he began to cross the street he could here the set of foot steps following him speed up rapidly. He turned to face his assailant and was met with a blow to the chin. He staggered backwards and was violently knocked over by a van pulling up abruptly. Two more men slid out of the large white sliding door and made their way towards the soldier. There was no way that captain John Watson would be going down without a fight. He stood quickly and blocked a hit intended for his stomach and countered by twisting the man's arm. He blocked, ducked, and beat his way through the fight, but in the end he was just one man and there were three highly trained men attacking him. Finally he was restrained and thrown into the truck. The driver peeled off whilst his three attackers bound and gagged the soldier. A taller chap brought up his fist as though he intended to pound it into John's skull and knock him unconscious. A paler man held him back though.

"Boss says to keep him awake, he's one of _them_."

The tall man lowered his arm and nodded. This did not bode well for John.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was beginning to become annoyed by all the incessant vibrating of his phone and since he really wasn't making much progress he figured he could at least spare a moment to promptly shut his brother up. Besides John should have been home four minutes ago which meant he must have stopped at that coffee shop again and would be walking in soon with something good to drink. The last thing the detective wanted was his nosey brother ruining quality time with John. He crossed the room to fetch his phone where it had landed in a pile of books Sherlock was using for reference. The screen on his mobile read 25 messages. It was concerning, Sherlock felt a short burst of anxiety, but he knew Mycroft would have called if it were important, he <em>knew<em> that. He opened up his phone and read through the messages.

_Office has been bombed, may be paranoia but it feels like a distraction. Evacuating now. _

_-MH_

_Could be Moriarty diverting my attentions and resources, where is John? _

_-MH_

_Now really is not the time for your childish antics. _

_-MH_

_Sherlock, answer your phone, there has been another bombing; I need to concentrate on protecting my people not on you for once. _

_-MH_

_My men aren't responding, where is John?_

_-MH _

_Sherlock, answer me! _

_-MH _

The messages went on and on and Sherlock could feel his stomach dropping by the second. What was happening? Was Moriarty really bombing Mycroft's office? He needed to get a hold of John; he knew Mycroft's goon squad was worthless. Then, if it were possible, his stomach sank even further. The blood in his veins turned to ice as he opened the last message, which had been sent by John seven minutes ago. His hands shook as he read the doctor's message.

_Being followed. 10 blocks west of the flat, send help, could be dangerous. _

_-JW_

Sherlock dropped the phone in shock. Seven minutes ago, and he was now four minutes late. The detective pulled at his hair violently, he had risked John, all for the sake of ignoring his brother. Quickly he picked the phone back up and called the doctor desperately with no avail. He cried bitterly into the answering machine. He had lost John, just as everything was finally falling into place, just as they were finally going to be happy…no, they _would_ be happy. Sherlock wouldn't allow Moriarty to take John from him. No way, John was _his_, and he would get him back.

**Ok, so listen up kiddies! Things are getting heated up, like boiling. The next chapter is going to be really intense ok? There's going to be blood and well…it's Moriarty, so it's going to be bad ok? There's going to be torture. I don't want to give too much away but I don't want you reading anything that makes you uncomfortable. So if you need to, just skip the next chapter and I'll make sure you get a recap in the next one. Also keep in mind you won't have any of my squeamishness in there, my friend Alie volunteered her services and she is one sick bitch, so she's writing the next chapter and the only instructions I gave her were to keep John alive. **


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N **

**You might have been warned, but you have no idea the monster Tori created when she asked me to write this chapter; and not just the beat of procrastination that got unleashed. Have fun; get ready to be entertained by my sick little imagination.**

**WARNING: There will be torture and disturbing images in this chapter, feel free to skip it if that makes you uncomfortable. **

"Well, this is a turn-up, isn't, John?" James Moriarty all but giggled into John's ear. "I've been waiting to get you all alone, you see, Sherlock is always… watching you." Jim smiled, and out of the corner of his eye, John saw the gleam of a sharpened blade. John strained his eyes towards the ceiling, avoiding the animalistic gaze of Jim Moriarty.

"I have so much fun in store for us, Johnny." Jim cooed, leaning forward and wiping sweat off of John's forehead. "So many fun little games for us to play. Then, we'll be best… friends." He accentuated his sentence by showing John the shining metal tool in his hand. "These are pliers, dear Watson, and I'm going to find so many fun little uses to make you scream. First, I'm going to heat them up, with this blow torch. Then, I'm going to wedge them under your toe nails. I'm going to pluck. Every. Single. Last. One. Until you cry and tell me you'll be my little bitch." Jim smiled brightly, placing the pliers down and slipping into gloves. "I just… Need. You. To. Be Mine." He shrugged, lighting the torch with a click of the metal sparker. "Care to say anything?" Jim sat on the table next to him.

Silence. It grated against Jim's ears, so he ground his teeth together. He shoved his face against John's pressing their lips together "I. Will. Make. You. Mine." He growled against John's lips.

His eyes popped, watching the pain spread across John's face. His lips curled at the corners as the rancid odor of burning hair and flesh assaulted his nose. He was accidently burning John's arm with the torch.

"Woops, can't overload your senses just yet, don't want you passing out. I even got some 'Dexedrine', I believe it's called. I hear it can keep you up for days. "

"You won't have me for days." John spit out threw his teeth.

"Oh, yes. You think Sherlock is going to save you, I have heard that he's become something of a _superhero_ for you. I could be _super_. Just for you. All you have to do is say that you're my little bitch. Just like that, too."

John, face as pale as sea foam, turned his attention back to the high smooth ceiling.

Jim started humming as he writhed his way down John's body. Caressing his thighs and calves as he made his way to John's feet.

"This little piggy went to market." Jim crooned, sliding the white hot pliers underneath John's toe, allowing the burning tip to probe all the way down the nail bed. John closed his eyes, and grew completely silent. He wouldn't allow himself to breath for fear that he might scream. Jim, beaming, twisted his wrist and reveled in the sickening tear the nail made as it was pulled from the cuticle.

"This little piggy stayed home." Jim pouted, and left the toe alone.

"This little piggy had roast beef." Jim grinned again. He levered the nail just barely between the pliers and jerked the nail backwards. His smile grew as almost the entire nail tore off, leaving blood to fill the nail bed where it had been previous.

"Now look at that! We don't want that nail to feel left out do we?" Jim smirked, curling his lips.

He grabbed the blowtorch back off the side table and began to reheat the pliers. "I really should keep these hotter, that's why the nail didn't come off the way I wanted it to, but not everyone can be perfect."

He smacked his lips together, as he pressed the red hot, searing, pliers against the stub of the nail left on his third toe. "I'm sure this little piggy enjoyed his roast beef very much." Jim purred, looking up at John as the sweltering heat ripped at the already sensitive skin. "I'd like for you to look me in the eyes John. I want to see your pain."

John, however, did not look. He tried to force himself to sleep. He closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock… if he could just get a projection out to Sherlock he could save him.

"This little piggy had none. Poor little piggy, we'll give him something." Jim took the pliers, dug in from the side, and ripped it off from right to left.

"I've been informed that this is agonizing, please, feel free to scream." Jim coerced, and then John felt the hot tip of the pliers slip under his little toenail.

"We all know how this one ends, chavs. So, all together…" With one deft flick of his wrist, Jim pulled his last nail out, but continued to sing "And this little piggy went "wee" "wee" "wee" all the way home." And with that Jim flared the blow torch up again and pointed the flame at the bleeding toes. John's back attempted to arch, and he could see stars. He clawed at the table, his veins bulging in his neck as he let out one low groan. Jim, with a hedonistic smile plastered to his face, held the torch in place. He watched the flames flicker over John's feet, the skin bubbling over and charring into a sickening white color.

"Now, that has to hurt. I hope you aren't planning on fainting; I'll give you some of that Dexedrine now. Can't have you sending a projection off to Sherlock, can we?" Jim clucked his tongue, all the while John staying completely silent. He had all but lost the feeling in his foot, but he felt the sharp prick in his inner elbow as Moriarty set up an I.V drip of the amphetamine.

"You might be in shock now, but in a minute your nerves are going to be on fire. No pun intended." Jim stepped back, admiring his handy work. Impressed with himself he grabbed a long piece of rope he had set aside for his second favorite form of torture, Strapaddo, or reverse hanging.

"As you can imagine, I'm rather tired," Jim shifted John onto his side "and I'm not the one I'm worried about causing trouble if I fall asleep. So, I'm going to go take a short siesta while you… hangout." Jim cackled at his wit, and tied the rope around John's wrists, leaving no room for struggle, or circulation.

He crossed the room, throwing the rope up and over a thick pipe, and agonizingly slowly John was pulled up by his wrists. Jim struggled to fully pull the man up, but he had the leverage of the pipe and finally he made it over to the door. Tying the rope around the door knob, John was completely suspended by his arms. He let out a horrifyingly beastly moan as his shoulders popped out of their sockets.

"See you later." Jim cooed, and shut the door behind him as he left.

There was nothing for John to stare at, and nothing to distract him, as the amphetamines took over and every nerve on his body came alive; including the charred ones on his toes and the bottoms of his feet. He let out a shriek that put the two men standing guard's hairs on end. He wanted to struggle against the ropes, but every movement brought on new waves of fresh pain. All he did was sway back in forth, tears gushing down his cheeks.

/

After an eternity of throbbing pain the door opened. Jim stepped in with a flourish and shoved John.

"You thought it was over? " Jim laughed at John's renewed anguish at the rough swinging motion. "All you have to do is say it, Johnny, just say you're mine." Jim was dancing with John's limp body.

Jim grabbed a large syringe off of the table and injected more Dexedrine into the tube of John's I.V. "Now, I have quite the little game for us to play, today. Unless, of course, you're going to concede and join me."

John jerked his head away, refusing to look at Moriarty. "Bugger off." He hissed.

"Hmm, buggery, that's another game we could play." Jim traced John's jaw with his finger. "That could be. So. Much. Fun."

"However, I have other plans for today." Jim hummed and pushed the table underneath John so the he was sitting.

John almost cried in relief as his weight was taken off his dislocated shoulders. The pain all changed to a dull thud if he sat perfectly still; and ignored the charred remains of his foot. His reprieve was only seconds long; Jim came behind him abruptly and shoved him face down into the metal table. Pain shot through his arms, and John couldn't help the audible gasp that escaped his lips.

"That sounded so good. Do it again, baby, for me?" Jim begged pressing his chest against John's back.

"Now, I do have a little surprise from the outside; something special just for my favorite little pet." Cool leather caressed the side of John's face before slapping down on his cheek. The stinging red mark caused John to take in a gasping breath.

"Sherlock Holmes's own riding crop; borrowed it from the mortuary at Bart's." Jim stood erect above John and did a plié. With a wide arc Jim slammed the riding crop down on John's already pained shoulders. He shut his eyes, holding back the onslaught of tears.

_Captain John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. _John repeated to him over and over again with each beat of the riding crop against his back.

"It'll all be over if you just say you'll do it, just say you'll be mine." Jim kept thwacking at John's back, watching with sick contentment as blood welled up from broken skin. "It'll all be over."

The Dexedrine kept John awake, kept his heart racing, and every hit brought his nerves alive with fresh swells of pain.

It was about then, that Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, began bargaining with God. He begged for Sherlock to come for him, he just wanted to remember the look on Sherlock's face when he would figure out a mystery. He imagined the look on Sherlock's face. He would give anything, he told God, he would give anything just to be back on Baker Street with his Detective again.

"What are you thinking about Dr. Watson?" Jim wondered aloud, taking a break with the riding crop. He set it down on the table. John caught a flash of something metal as Moriarty went back to staring at John's back. "I really do hate to do this to you, John. If only you would listen, think how powerful we could be. You're the best, John, and not just because I think you're the cutest. So what do you say?" Jim leaned his face next to John's, resting it on the table so they were eye to eye. "What do you say?" He repeated, slower.

John mustered all the strength he had left to fight and sent spit flying at Moriarty's face. "Sod you."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear you say that, John. Don't worry, once I show you all the fun games I have left, you'll be dying to stay." To accentuate his point Jim thrust what felt like a box cutter into one of the bruises from the riding crop. "Let's make this our own version of connect the dots. I'll make the cuts, and you tell me what you think it's going to make."

Pressing the blade down as far as it went; Jim dragged it through John's skin to the next welt. "So far I think it's going to be a duck, but there's only so much we can tell at the beginning." Jim made several more gashes before grabbing what appeared to be a table salt shaker and sprinkling salt into all of the slashes.

In a futile attempt to get away John squirmed on the table, and Jim pressed him down to keep him still. "Damn it, this was a good suit." His rage lit up his face and he reached for his riding crop again, beating at John's inflamed and bloody back. Blood splattered all over his already ruined suit and spat droplets to cover Jim's face.

It was about then, that Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, stopped bargaining with God, and started praying that he was dead.


	25. Chapter 25

**The Curious case of John Watson **

**Chp 25**

**Ok, so I went back and added another warning at the beginning of chapter 24 because I got a comment about there being no warning. I just want to say that I did leave a warning at the end of chapter 23 saying there would be torture and that you could skip the chapter. I'm not trying to trick people into reading something they don't want to, promise! So while I am very sorry if anyone was offended by the last chapter, there isn't much I can do for you if you don't read the author's notes. **

Panic. One of the greatest understatements of all time could be using the word panic to convey just how Sherlock Holmes felt when he discovered that John Watson was taken. Panic was just one word; one word couldn't possibly cover everything the detective was experiencing. His mind was racing, his heart was thundering in his chest, his blood was running cold, and his body was trembling all over. He just wanted to scream, and he did, multiple times. He screamed he yelled and he threw things, but none of it was helping. Nothing was helping. John was gone and Mycroft was busy and Lestrade wasn't answering his phone. He couldn't wait for them; John couldn't wait for them, Sherlock needed to go. He left the flat and walked to where John had indicated he was being followed then began walking back to the flat, analyzing everything and anything that could be a clue. In the street in front of him he could see dark skid marks, they were large and fresh. They appeared dark and elongated, fast moving vehicle then, judging by the space between the tires it was a van of sorts. It had to be what took John; he looked around and could see a surveillance camera jutting off a building to his left.

Three hours and twelve illegal uses of a lifted badge courtesy of D.I. Lestrade later, Sherlock was back at the flat with a pile of evidence. He couldn't make heads or tails of anything. Moriarty was leaving behind multiple trails, it was impossible to tell which leads were real and which were false. He had run the plates of the van which led him back to the old fishing company they had investigated previously and discovered they were actually smugglers. In fact every clue he found just led him back to old cases he and John had solved. It was horribly confusing for even the detective. After hours of hunting down leads some useful, most not, he had come to the conclusion that hunting down answers wasn't the way to go. He had to figure out where Moriarty took him, and he couldn't base it off of any conventional use of the evidence.

_Buzz buzz._

Sherlock leapt up and snatched the phone off the coffee table. There was no way he'd be ignoring his phone for a long time. Sherlock looked at the screen quickly. Unknown sender. He took a deep breath and opened the message.

_Hello, sexy! Having fun yet, I know I am._

The detective felt his heart stop and the air rush out of his lungs. _No_. The phone dropped from his hand and onto the ground with a loud thud. God, this really was too much. Moriarty had John, who knew what the monster was doing to him, and Sherlock was powerless to help him. He drew a shaky breath and scrambled to retrieve the phone. It wasn't something he wanted to do, but he had no choice, it was talk to Moriarty or remain in the dark.

_Where do you have him?_

_-SH_

He hit the send button and shut his eyes tight. He needed something, anything from the man to get his John back.

_No foreplay then? Pity, the doctor has made you boring! Don't worry, I'm teaching him a few tricks._

His body stopped being frozen with panic and started vibrating with rage.

_You give him back to me now and I promise you a quick death rather than the slow torturous one I'm planning for you right now. _

_-SH_

_Torture? Oh, now we're getting somewhere._

_I'm serious, give him back NOW. _

_-SH_

_Hmm…no. We're just getting started over here. Really you should see him; he's quite the little soldier. You'd be proud; he's trying so hard to keep a straight face. _

A strangled gasp escaped the detective's lips. He could barely type out his response his hands shook so badly.

_Stop it. Take me instead._

_-SH_

Better to let John live, to save him. He couldn't live without John, so if that's where this was headed, he was dead anyway.

_Tempting… but no. You're brilliant, don't get me wrong, but John…well he's got a little something I need…and a few I want. I see why you like him now, he's tougher than he looks, if I didn't have such a tight schedule I'd let him hang around a little longer, his body looks marvelous stretched out like this. _

Sherlock felt hot tears begin to trail down his cheeks. This couldn't be happening, not to John.

_Shut up. I will find you, and when I do, whatever you've done to him I will do to you, and I won't stop until you're begging for death. _

_-SH_

_Well, might as well have a bit of fun then shant I? It's been fun talking to you, really, but I need to rest up. Ta! _

Sherlock threw the phone across the room once again, finally shattering the damn thing. The great detective fell to his knees with such force that the flat seemed to shake at impact. He let the tears fall freely and braced himself against the floor. John was trapped, being tortured, and it was all his fault. All because he wasn't there when John needed him. The doctor had always come to Sherlock's aide, was always at his beck and call, and he couldn't even repay the favor the one time it truly mattered.

* * *

><p>Mycroft and Greg were hesitant at first, but with one look at how distraught the detective was they quickly changed their tunes. It was a big favor he was asking for, he knew that, but he would pay them back when John was back safe and sound. Even with the bombing crisis Mycroft managed to get a group of men together relatively quickly along with Lestrade and a few of his men, Sherlock planned to lead them into every single location that John could be in. He had narrowed it down, but barely, and not with much certainty. From what he'd seen the past two days now Jim was rather nostalgic. It had to be somewhere John and he had worked a case before. Unfortunately the number of places that an influential man such as Moriarty could hold and torture John was considerable. They had over twenty buildings to check out and he had no idea how much time they had. They would start close to home and then branch outward, considering how soon he had received a text it was likely they hadn't traveled far. First stop on their list would be the pool, it was a long shot, but there was no telling what was going through the madman's head. He would go through every centimeter of those buildings until he found John, no matter what it took. The only thing he could think of was the horrible things Moriarty could be doing to John, and how it was the detective's fault it was happening. When he found the consulting criminal there would be hell to pay. Sherlock had John's Browning L9A1 and was prepared to use it, Mycroft had promised his swift removal to a creative interrogation cell but there was no way Moriarty was leaving without at least one mark to remember him by. So Sherlock, Mycroft, and Lestrade gathered their men and headed out in search of the doctor, and they wouldn't come back until they had him.<p> 


	26. Chapter 26

**The Curious Case of John Watson**

**Chp 26**

**Getting close to the end here guys…**

John's memory was fuzzy about the last few hours with Moriarty; he wasn't even sure how long he had spent with the consulting criminal. The last thing he could remember was that he was finally alone, the pain was no longer bothering him, his body had finally gone into shock, the drug had to have warn off, then he heard the sound of marching foot steps and gun fire. After that it was black until he found himself in an unfamiliar hospital room. The walls were all the same shade of white that his sheets were. In fact the only color he found in the room was the metallic chrome of the machines he was hooked up to and the blue and green flecks that formed a horribly boring pattern on his hospital gown. It was definitely not a hospital he'd visited before, he'd remember this one, so bright and secluded, and it was uncannily silent other than the bleeping of the machines that indicated that he was in fact still alive. He might have been more concerned about how odd this hospital was if he wasn't so full of pain killers. Not that he was complaining; he really didn't want to think about not being on pain killers right now. It was almost laughable how many bandages he was wrapped in, for a moment he considered he must look like some Egyptian mummy. His arms had been put back in their sockets; he could almost still feel the tug of the rope though. He shuttered at the memory and shook his head to try and remove it from his mind. Bandages were wrapped around his torso and if he turned he could feel the welts and abrasions on his back cry out. He didn't even want to look at his feet, he knew how bad burns could look, and he imagined he'd be wearing socks far more frequently from then on. His shoulder wound from Afghanistan had been made further pronounced by the twisting of Moriarty's blade. Even considering all the injuries he had obtained what haunted the soldier most was everything that the consulting criminal had said, all the places he had _touched_. He would make John bleed, make him cry out in pain, and then caress him, try to soothe him. It was sickening and the thought of it brought bile to the back of his throat.

He could hear approaching foot steps and part of him filled with alarm, it may have been the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, but part of him was terrified Moriarty would come waltzing through the doors with another one of his "toys". He shivered and felt his left hand begin trembling uncontrollably. He held his breath and didn't release it until he watched the lanky form of his beloved detective walk in. He gave a big smile and patted a spot on the bed next to himself. The tall man observed this action but remained standing at the front of the room, his face devoid of emotion.

"That's probably not for the best."

He sighed giving off an air of boredom. John frowned, he expected the detective to be happier to see him, or at least concerned about his condition. The last time he was injured Sherlock looked as though he were about to have a heart attack.

"Is something…wrong?"

The tall man looked at him dully before inspecting his nails.

"No, I'm just not sure that response is appropriate given the circumstances."

Dread started to creep into the back of the doctor's mind. This wasn't right, it couldn't be.

"Why-why wouldn't it be…are you sure everything is ok?"

Sherlock let out a loud irritated sigh.

"Everything is _fine_ John. Honestly, if you carry on like this you're only going to make this harder on yourself. I came by to inform you that you're going to have to find a new flat."

John froze. A new flat? Why was Sherlock doing this? He loved him; he had said he loved him, that he would never leave! This couldn't be happening, this had to be some dream, it wasn't real.

"What are you talking about?"

His voice was barely a whisper as he tried his best to conceal just how petrified he was by this.

"Well, you were gone for over four days. I assumed that Moriarty would have most likely killed you early on. I was expecting your corpse to be delivered any day now, imagine my surprise when you showed up alive. So, naturally, I removed your possessions to make room for a new flat mate. Who, by the way, doesn't complain nearly as much about the mess."

John pinched himself, hard. No, he was awake, he was horrifyingly awake. That wasn't possible though, Sherlock had said he _loved_ him.

"No. This isn't happening. You're lying, you wouldn't do that. You…_you love me_."

He was close to breaking now; he could feel the tears gathering behind his eyes, burning to burst out. It was only made worse by the way the detective rolled his eyes.

"John, obviously I've given you far too much credit, I was _lying_. I needed you to cooperate with the experiments. Even _you_ could have figured that out. Married to my work, remember?"

John started shaking his head, he couldn't handle this, couldn't hear those words, not from Sherlock. Not from the one person who had made him feel whole. Not after everything that had happened.

"Stop it. Just _stop it_. Why are you doing this to me? Why would you lie to me like that, only to…only to throw me away? What, you don't _need_ me any more? I'm of no use to you now, so you can just toss me out?"

He was growing angry now, furious even, he needed to, he'd be damned if he cried in front of the man now.

"Don't be so dramatic, I wasn't_ planning_ to throw you away. I assumed that once I'd gathered all the information I needed to confront Moriarty my brother could take you to some testing facility. I was going to have you in the flat a bit longer but then you were taken and I wasn't going to waste time looking for a flat mate or for your drunkard of a sister to come pick up your things. Besides, when the rescue team found you they also found some files on the experiments, the chemicals, and the abilities you and all the other subjects now possess. So I'm just informing you that you no longer have a flat. You should probably get one quickly, with any luck you might have a month or so before my brother has you taken away."

John fisted the sheets tightly trying desperately to restrain himself from leaping out of bed and punching the man. This was an absolute nightmare. He had been so _sure_ that Sherlock meant it, that he had really loved John. The doctor should have known better, he should have seen this coming. It had all been one big joke and once again John found himself at the butt of it.

"Fuck you. Fuck you_ and_ your brother. There is no way that's happening. I'm not even entirely sure how real this is, you could just be-"

"What? One of Moriarty's men? Please, I doubt he'd go through all this trouble for _you_. Honestly John, did you really think this was going to last? Be truthful, somewhere in the back of your mind you always knew this wouldn't last. You were pathetically boring before, and rarely useful, but now…well now you're just a _freak_."

John's jaw dropped and he just stared at the detective for almost a full minute. That broke any illusion he had about this being some hallucination or ploy or Moriarty. Sherlock was right, he had felt like this was only a matter of time, but that was before that night…he had really thought that Sherlock had loved him. After everything they'd been through, he thought he'd actually meant something to the man. But he could see now how stupid that was. Obviously he wouldn't, John had been just some boring veteran, what could he possibly mean to the greatest mind of their generation, of _any_ generation. Sherlock was a genius with a short attention span, there was no way somebody like John could hold his interest for long; in fact he should be impressed with how long the detective had tolerated him. Now it was over, and he could feel his world crashing around him. Finally he cleared his throat and looked to the floor on his right.

"Leave."

He deadpanned hoping to appear as unaffected as possible. Sherlock quirked one brow and observed him with slightly more interest than he had before.

"That's a bit better, I-"

"LEAVE!"

John's voice shook the room and even seemed to startle the detective with its intensity. The tall man quickly but gracefully existed the room shutting the door behind him. John glared at the thing for something like a millennia before he began to tremble. Soon after one sob broke out, then several more, and soon he found himself curled into a ball continuously racked with sobs. He cried until his voice went raw and he didn't have a single tear left, and then he just laid there wishing he'd never woken up. He wished that Moriarty had killed him and been done with it, because this was far worse than death.


	27. Chapter 27

**The Curious Case of John Watson**

**Chp 27**

**Were you confused/emotionally damaged by the last chapter? Well prepare to be more so, and less so, and more so, and…well, just prepare yourself ok? (Bad language in this chapter!)**

This was not ok. Lestrade said it would be ok, Mycroft said it would be ok; Mrs. Hudson said it would be ok. Everyone who got with in one yard of Sherlock was practically shouting at him that it would be ok. He knew better, and he had known it the moment they entered St. Bart's. Moriarty had chosen the hospital probably because it was where the three of them had first met in person. That wasn't important, what was important was that after Sherlock had run threw the hospital, after running threw over 6 other potential sites, and after John had been gone for four agonizing days, Sherlock finally found where they had been keeping John. But it was too late. The room had shelves lined with different knives and tools meant to cause as much pain as possible. A good portion of them were covered in blood, John's blood. He didn't need to test it, he knew. He knew all that blood was his, the blood on the blades, on the ropes, all over the table and the floor. He knew the smell was John too, the mixture of blood, sweat, vomit, and tears. He knew the blood was John's, the blades were Moriarty's, but the fault was his. He was careless and John had been taken, and tortured, and…he didn't want to finish that thought. He never wanted to finish another thought again; he just wanted to lodge a bullet in his skull because Christ, he had been _too late_. He had burst through those doors and he had seen everything, the blood, the bile…but no John. Mycroft's people were out of their minds trying to figure out who was behind the mystery bombings, Lestrade's men were always out of their minds because they were a bunch of babbling morons, and that left Sherlock with no one who had nearly enough time or resources to find out what had happened to John. The only thing they could do was tell him it would be ok.

Fuck ok! Sherlock didn't _want_ ok! He wanted John, and he wanted him _now_. He didn't know what to do though, it was possible that Moriarty had seen that Sherlock was getting close, could have had him moved. Fuck, he could have had him flown to the sodding _moon_ for all he knew! The mastermind was able to confine and torture a man in the basement of a fucking hospital, he was untouchable. The detective was left with no leads, not even false ones. Moriarty had covered his tracks well; there was no way Sherlock would find John until the consulting criminal decided he would. Until then he was trapped in the dark, hopelessly searching for any trace of the doctor, but fearing the worst. Which, he was beginning to think, was probably not in fact the worst, death that is. At this point, John would be pleading for death. Moriarty was a man of many skills, and making the soldier's life a living hell was definitely one of them. If John wasn't dead, then he had to be in excruciating pain. Sherlock would never admit it, but at that thought, he too preyed for John's death. He prayed that John could end his suffering, even if it would mean the end of his life. Because Sherlock knew there were worse fates than death.

He wouldn't stop looking though, no, he would never stop looking. He just couldn't ignore his own overly logical brain which was screaming the worst bloody things. John was being hurt because he was Sherlock's, because he wouldn't have been in that sodding lab in the first place if he had never met the accursed detective. That was an understatement though, "being hurt", anyone who'd been tortured could tell you that "being hurt" did a shit job of describing the experience. Now all Sherlock could think was that John would be writhing in pain, nerve endings _screaming_ for it to stop, but it wouldn't stop, not until he was dead. Sherlock's mind knew that, his mind knew that John would suffer a long, slow, and gruesome death; because that's how Moriarty operated. He had no use for John, he was fairly certain of that, Sebastian had said they'd turn John to their side, but John would never do that. So he would be killed, and Sherlock could do nothing to stop it. His said these things, screamed them really, but his heart…well his heart had other thoughts. His heart had hopes and prayers, his heart wanted John to be found, alive, and fully intact. His heart was an idiot and only made things worse, only made the reality sting more.

These are the events, and thoughts, that lead the detective to Lestrade's office on day five. These things are what lead to the tall man ranting and raving about the utter stupidity of New Scotland Yard. These are the events that lead him to be over 528000 yards away from the very doctor he was trying to save. The same doctor who was now having a very important conversation with a man who he would later discover was not in fact Sherlock Holmes, but a man by the name of Calvin Neilson. This man who was not Sherlock might not have known it, but his actions that day did not only earn him a pay raise, but would later cost his life. Because for now, everything was going according to plan, for now Moriarty was winning, but it wouldn't last. No, nothing forged with a lie can ever truly last, and when it came crashing down around the criminal madman, Calvin would also find himself pinned beneath the flaming rubble. When it was over, when the trick was revealed, John would not be happy. He would _not_ be happy, and he certainly would _not_ have mercy.

**Dun dun dun! Stay tuned folks, a longer chapter tomorrow!**


	28. Epilogue

**The Curious Case of John Watson**

**Epilogue **

Captain John Watson was never one for hospitals; even after he was shot he'd spent his entire stay trying to get out. When he was a kid it meant too many questions, as he got older it just meant a lot of time stuck in one place. He was a man of action not of lying in bed and being hawk eyed by a bunch of nurses. This time however, he didn't mind. He hardly noticed the week go by, he barely felt the "progress" his doctor went on about, and he really didn't care that he'd done nothing but sit for the whole trip. He didn't care because there was nothing else for him to do. He had half expected to find himself in a coma again, at least that would have been an excuse to stay in bed longer. It would have occupied him for a bit at least, since there really was nothing left for him in the outside world. He didn't have a job; that went out the window after he spent a month split between a vegetable and an eight year old. He didn't have any one to visit, seeing Harry was always a hassle and Sherlock…well. The detective had made his feelings very clear.

He winced slightly as he got out of bed and felt his feet hit the ground, the burns were still healing. He reached forward to grab hold of his newly issued wheel chair; he'd only need it for a month or so while he healed. His inability to walk was just another bitter reminder of his loss though. The first time he'd met the lanky detective, he'd cured his limp, the last time he'd see him was when he would be loosing his ability to walk all together. Sherlock had cured him just to leave him more broken than before. He had told himself he'd be able to handle this, that he would never regret the time he had with Sherlock, because he had felt loved. Which was partially true, he would always look fondly on the brief time where he did feel almost completely whole. What he hadn't intended on though was that it had all been a lie; he had known it wouldn't last, but he'd been stupid enough to believe that for at least a little bit someone had loved him. He had believed it at the time, which meant he could never fully regret it; he had finally felt love, even if it were a sham. But because it wasn't true, there was no fuzzy feeling to them, just pain. He was still as unlovable as the day he was born.

He hated sitting in the wheel chair, it made him look even smaller than usual, made him feel even smaller. It was as if everyone could look at how pathetically small he looked and see just how pathetic he was all around. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and made his way into the hall. The hospital halls were the same boring shade of white that were in his bedroom as were all the desks and shelves. It was strange, but he couldn't care less at the moment. He wheeled himself forward, feeling uncomfortable with both his relative size to the nurses walking by him and the itchy clothing that his nurse had said Mrs. Hudson had sent him. Which was another odd thing, he would have thought at least Mrs. H would have visited him, or Lestrade, even Harry if for anything to ask for money. But the only visit he had was Sherlock's one trip up to give his cruel good bye's. He rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop.

Standing in the hallway, with a grin as cunning as the devil himself, was none other than James Moriarty. John considered calling for help, but that probably wasn't the best idea, Moriarty would have a plan 'B' for sure. He gripped tightly onto the wheel chair involuntarily and swallowed down a scream. He was certain his shock and fear had to be written all over his face. The bastard was probably into it. The doctor didn't know what Moriarty was doing there or what he wanted, but he really didn't want to know. No, right now he just wanted to go…well there wasn't anywhere for him to go really, he didn't have any money either. He could always just call Mycroft and tell him to just have him shipped out today and get it over with. Anything would be better than to be left alone with the man who had tortured him for four days straight.

"Fancy meeting you here."

Moriarty greeted with an almost friendly tone, but John knew better.

"What do you want?"

He spit the words at the consulting criminal who almost laughed in response to the doctor's harsh tone. He wriggled his hands around the insides of his pockets while he composed himself.

"John, please, I'm not the one you should be angry with."

John scoffed; he couldn't believe the nerve of the man. He wanted to laugh, partly because of the audacity and partly because of how nervous he was. He knew how dangerous the man was, and what he was capable of.

"Oh yeah? Then who, who should I be mad at, hmm? Certainly not the man who stuck knives in me for four days!"

"Temper, temper!"

Moriarty took a few steps closer as he tsked the doctor, a large slightly manic smile splayed across his face.

"John, all I did was play my part, I'm just playing the game. Sherlock, he's the one, Sherlock's the one you should be mad at. Am I right?"

John clamped his jaw shut, he wasn't ready to talk about Sherlock yet, and definitely not with the madman in front of him.

"It's written all over your face Johnny-boy, he hurt you, he hurt you bad. Broke your tiny little h-"

"What's your point?"

John really didn't want to hear that, it was bad enough he knew people could tell; he didn't need to hear it.

"A bit grumpy today are we? Don't make me put you in time out; we know what happens to bad boys when they get sent to time out."

He purred and stepped closer so he could reach out and brush his fingertips across John's cheek. John pulled away from the touch, trying to keep himself from shuddering at the influx of memories associated with it.

"Can you just make this quick? I'm not even apart of your stupid game anymore, you know that, Sherlock left."

The last part came out in a harsh whisper, as if saying it louder would make it more real, make the pain worse.

"Oh, John! You know better, this isn't about Sherlock anymore! Well…not entirely. It's about you now, you and your special little gift!"

He twirled around with delight as if it were the greatest realization ever.

"You've got plenty of others who would be more than willing to work for you, what do you care about me? I'm not even that great at projecting, it still gives me headaches."

Jim shook his head and circled around the doctor, making him almost unbearably anxious.

"Fun fact, John. What you went through is my standard initiation process, it helps me assess my employees weak points, let's me know what kind of people they are. Most of them gave in within a couple of hours, some less than that. Sebastian lasted two days. But you…you were there for _four days_, and I wasn't even _close_ to breaking you! Sure you were miserable, I heard you begging for me to kill you a couple times too, but you weren't going to give in were you?"

John shook his head slowly, no, he wasn't. He'd been trained to deal with that sort of thing, and he certainly wasn't going to work for some crazed murderer, no matter how much he tortured him. He hadn't thought of it, but it made sense that the torture was Moriarty's interview; it definitely fit how the man operated.

"Do you know why John? Because I do, I know _lots_ of things about you, some you may not even know. I know why you wouldn't give in, it's because you're loyal. You're loyal to Britain and you're loyal to _Sherlock_. Or…you _were_ loyal to Sherlock, am I right?"

John nodded his head, it was true, he would have given his life for Sherlock. He had nearly done it a dozen times, and he'd die for his country as well. He wasn't so sure anymore though, he wasn't sure he'd ever trust like that again. Sherlock had tricked him, broken him. The government, well it was almost as bad. It left him with a shitty pension after the war, after he bled for them, and now Mycroft (who practically _was_ the government) was planning to have him shipped off to be tested against his will.

"I want you John."

The consulting criminal's deadpanned tone and all too serious face made the comment more than unnerving.

"E-excuse me?"

"You heard me. I _want_ you. You're loyal, and a true soldier, not to mention you're the perfect man for the task at hand."

"Are you daft? You tortured me for four days and I never wavered once, what makes you think I will now?"

Moriarty leaned in so that John could feel the man's hot breath on his face.

"You're not the same man I tortured one week ago though, are you? No, like I said before you had loyalty. Now what do you have? Honestly, you don't even have a flat anymore. Look…I know that you're hesitant to work with me, you've got some moral code or something that tells you it's 'bad'. But why John, because it's what the law tells you is bad? What has the law done for you? They couldn't even be bothered to look for you, they only came when I gave them your location so they could keep up appearances, can't scare the masses you know!"

"You're a murderer. You kill people for fun; you make a profit off of misery."

Jim gave an almost kind smile and placed one hand on John's shoulder, which to the doctor's surprise, he didn't brush off.

"John, I promise you, if you do your job, you'll be saving lives. Trust me. With out you I'll have to kill _a lot_ more people to get what I want! Besides, you'll be great at it, with practice you could be one of the greatest soldiers in my army! You will be _needed_ John, you will be _respected,_ you will be_ loved_. Isn't that what you want?"

"How do I know you're not lying? You could just be taking me back to torture me for all I know."

"John…if I wanted to torture you, I would, your decision wouldn't matter in the slightest."

That was true…Moriarty did have considerable influence. This went against everything John had stood for though. It was against every fiber of his being, and yet…there was part of him that couldn't deny the allure. He liked the idea of being useful again, he liked being wanted. He knew this was wrong, but what choice did he have? He had no where to live, no one that cared for him, and he had no means of providing for himself for some time. Not to mention that a certain umbrella carrying genius was out to turn him into an overrated lab rat. Plus, there was always the chance that he said no and Moriarty took him anyway and tortured him to teach him a lesson. John observed the man who was centimeters away from his face, he was loony, there was no doubt about that. But he was smart, and he made a good point. A _few_ good points. The doctor might not be proud of it, but he almost like the idea. Becoming a part of something, reaching towards a common goal, the camaraderie that came with these things. It was what had drawn him to the army in the first place. This was Moriarty though,_ the_ Moriarty! The one who had killed so many innocent people, the one who had tortured him! Yet…Sherlock had tortured him too, hadn't he? He'd ignored him, experimented on him, constantly berated him, he'd _tricked_ him. Really the two men were a lot alike if he thought about it. Neither of them cared about anything but themselves and the game. Whether John liked it or not he was apart of that now.

"What would I have to do…hypothetically speaking. What would you be asking of me?"

Jim smiled wildly in a way that sent shivers down John's spine. If someone had told him a month ago that he'd even be considering working with this man he would have had them shipped off to the nut house. But that was before he was broken, before he'd lost everything. He wasn't a soldier, a doctor, a _boyfriend_…he wasn't anything. He was just a walking (correction, _rolling_) pile of nothing. He'd give the world to feel something again, to just feel even the smallest speck of admiration. It wasn't all bad either, he told himself, he could work within Moriarty's organization, maybe prevent a few murders. If Jim was being serious about John being important he might hold some leverage, he could save a few lives. Perhaps even get a little pay back. John wasn't one for revenge, normally, but imagining the shock on Sherlock's face when he saw the soldier by Moriarty's side…well it almost made him excited. He could be tricky too, he could be underhanded. He wasn't going to just lie there like some wounded dog, like some toy the detective could use until he was no longer amused and just toss him aside! Jim moved his free hand to John's other shoulder and looked the doctor dead in the eyes.

"You'd be doing no less than helping me bring down the British government, and the Holmes boys along with it. After that…well, we'll just have to wait for the highest bidder. A lot of money in terrorism Dr. Watson."

John didn't like the sound of that; he had fought against terrorism just a few years ago. He also couldn't deny the risks involved weren't appealing either, besides the risk it posed to British citizens there was the risk to his own freedom as well. Even if it meant getting back at Sherlock and his brother…he was a human after all.

"I don't kn-"

"John, be logical. The people will be fine, the government will recover…eventually, we just need to demonstrate our abilities. Once people know what we're capable of, no one will ever be able to touch us again. No one will be able to hurt you. You'll have power…you'll have me."

John's face flashed with confusion, have Jim? Why would he want Jim? Why would Jim…did he want…John?

"We'll make a great team you and me. I'll treat you with all the respect Sherlock was too stupid to give you. He didn't know; he couldn't see how strong you are, how much power you hold. But I do, I can see it in everything you do. Sherlock's mind entertains me, but you…you _excite _me."

John could feel his heart beat elevated, it was terrifying to have such a man take an interest in him. He wasn't sure how to respond, although he could hear the voice in the back of his head was screaming to get out of there as fast as possible. His body didn't move though, in fact it stilled a great deal. This was horribly wrong, but John had spent his whole life doing right, and that had gotten him no where good. Life constantly just hurled its worst at the doctor, never once giving him any reprieve, once he finally would feel safe or that things could be turning up life would shove him back down. Maybe it was his turn to dish it out rather than sitting back and taking it like a bitch. He was done with being pushed around, and if that meant making a deal with the devil, then so be it.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"I'll do it. But I have some conditions."

Jim eyed him curiously but he nodded his head approvingly.

"I'm listening."

John took in a deep breath before he started.

"Just a few. First, I won't be tortured, obviously you're a powerful man and you've proven that you can do as you please, but I most certainly will be ceasing any cooperation if you do so. Second, I refuse to kill anyone innocent, you can do what you want with me, but I won't kill an innocent person. Third…I decide what happens to the Holmes brothers."

Jim's face contorted into a sickeningly demonic smile, he licked his lips and looked at the doctor with an almost predatory stare.

"You drive a hard bargain John, I like that. I'll give you the first two, fine, that's easy enough. Plenty of nasty people out there to be killed, besides, that's not really going to be your area anyway. Pity we can't play with my toys though, maybe you'll let me make you scream in _other_ ways…"

The consulting criminal trailed one of his hands from the top of John's should to the tip of his middle finger. His eyes glazed over just slightly as he watched himself do it then brought his focus back on John's face. Which the soldier was trying very hard to keep composed. He may be willing to work for the man, but there were certain things that were _never_ going to happen.

"The Holmes boys are a bit more precious to me though, you'll have to earn them…you think you can do that?"

John looked at the madman warily; he didn't know what to think. Could he do that? Fuck, he didn't even know if he could survive the week. The only thing that he could think about was how empty he felt, and he just needed something, _anything_, to fill that hole. This could be the greatest mistake of a life time, but he was past the point of caring. From then on he was just going to focus on _doing_.

"Yeah, I think I can do that."

"Good."

Jim purred into the doctor's ear, and with that the two of them left the hospital and entered into a partnership that would begin, and end, in blood.

**Don't be alarmed! Yes this is the end of the book, but that's only because there is way too much for one story, I'm going to be putting the sequel up real soon! Couple of days tops, maybe even tomorrow. John's going to figure it out as I've already stated in the last chapter, but it's going to take some time, and involve an awful lot of drama! (Sequel will be titled "The Trick Revealed")**


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